


The Rocky Road

by beakdog_hoarder, spellwing777



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: 10/10 Beta would recommend, 20+ chapter essay on 'just what does it take to give a higher vampire ptsd anyway', Deus ex Ciri, Everybody lives!, F/M, I accidentally a lovecraftian chthonic goddess, I consulted a biologist for it and everything, M/M, Mind the Tags, Syanna is an Aileen Wuornos expy only hotter and more badass, and irl psychology research love each other very much, and you get ptsd and you get ptsd PTSD FOR ERRYONE!, but really it’s just domestic violence causing genocide as usual, co-creator: beakdog_hoarder, dead bat do not eat, detailed description of surgery because Regis IS a doctor, end up abandoning his morals and doing a 180 on personality, fishing a live crayfish out of a thoracic cavity, fix-it by definition, fix-it fics don’t go well with psychological and sociopolitical realism, for all your weird biology and SCIENCE! Needs, fridge horror by application, hidden memes becuase I’m a fuckin’ troll, implied/refrenced rape but no detailed descriptions, let's go with that and see how it develops from there, mindrape is a good start, mommy, really pretentious artsy illustrations because I’m an overachiever, sometimes something looks like a bad idea, that's not necessarily a good thing, that's rooted in severe ptsd, the answer is even more lovecraftian than you expect, there’s gore but honestly it’s just tuesday in the witcher-verse, they’re why I have ‘fishing a live crayfish out of a thoracic cavity’ as a tag, this whole thing is just a psa on mental health, to become a mass murdering terrorist at the end of it?, well sweetie, when a fic writer that likes to over analyze things, why would a person that's been described as being a nice guy through the entire game, you get a conclusion of a psychotic episode being triggered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 176,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24782959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beakdog_hoarder/pseuds/beakdog_hoarder, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spellwing777/pseuds/spellwing777
Summary: Just because everyone involved survives, doesn’t mean events turned out for the better.
Relationships: Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Dettlaff van der Eretein/Syanna | Rhenawedd, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, I mean Dettlaff has big tiddy goth gf energy I don't blame him one bit, Mostly one-sided on Regis' part, sorta, well
Comments: 81
Kudos: 70





	1. Blood and Bruises

* * *

There was, perhaps, a good reason to add ‘patience’ to the list of chivalric virtues, though Palmerin was sure Baron de Peyrac-Peyran wouldnt heed it any more than he did now. Not that he could blame the older knight; they had been far too long on the road with no news of their quarry. From the sounds of it, Geralt and his lover Yennefer had run away to some well-deserved vacation, and while the empress Ciri had promised to forward their request it was bound to take a while for it to be received. In the meantime, there were bandits to deal with. 

“Come,” Palmerin said, taking his sword. “At the very least, raining down justice on some reprobates should ease your ire.”

His companion nodded. “Ah, tis true. Will you try to speak to them first?”

“Of course. One must at least _try_ to avoid bloodshed.”

“I remain unconvinced they will listen.”

“While I agree, words of admonition may at least give them food for thought when in the midst of being trounced by knights of the duchy.”

Peyrac chuckled. “Quite. Perhaps the survivors will think twice before bullying the peasantry.”

As it was the bullies did not think twice about attacking, which was just as well. Milton was rather glad of it as weeks of idleness had left him eager to test his blade against some ruffians who doubtless deserved the fate they’d earned. From what the pitiable residents of this village had told him, they not only took tribute in coin and food, but also women and girls to use and abuse. It was the last bit that left him more eager than usual, more angry. 

_Although, he would be lying to himself if defending the girls of today made up for the cowardice he’d displayed in the defence of the girls of yesteryear. The beatings. The silence in the face of others doing worse than beatings._

He grunted and pushed that thought aside for now. The ladies of this place needed him _now_ , and he was honor-bound to oblige. He cut one bandit down in the middle of him yelling about ‘go for the whoreson’s eyes!’ and another that was trying to aim his crossbow, snapping the weapon’s string and the man’s hand in twain. He kicked the dog aside, and turned to face-

-a loaded wagon drawn by terrified horses, and no way to dodge in time.

After that, all he was facing was blackness.

  
  


* * *

  
  


A week earlier, somewhere in the north

_Geralt of Rivia,_

_At the behest of our merciful sovereign, Her Illustrious Grace Anna Henrietta, we have journeyed to the Northern Realms to lay before you our mission. A terrible monster has appeared in the Duchy of Toussaint, a beast that has committed heinous crimes against her Grace's subjects. Only the Most Famous Among Witchers has the ability to destroy the Beast, thus we humbly beseech you to appear in the village of Holloway, where we shall await you in full hope that you will deign to hear of our woes and liberate our land from the clutches of fear._

_Your humble servants:_

_Sirs Palmerin de Launfal and Milton de Peyrac-Peyran._

_Well,_ Geralt thought, _First time a notice was addressed to me personally that wasn't a wanted poster._

While a rather flowery, flattering notice was a nice change of pace from the multitudes of adds with a sob story attached, he wished it had at least some more information. Still, he was going to get to see some old friends, which just might be worth whatever trouble he was bound to get into. He’d missed Milton, and-with a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth-maybe he’d be able to get a bead on Anna’s level of outraged decency when it came to the bard. Perhaps it might finally be safe for him to come to Toussaint, though he doubted it. At the very least, he’d get to enjoy some of that famous wine that he hadn't tasted in years.

“Are you _really_ thinking of answering that?” Yen sighed.

It was a rhetorical question, really. As much as she knew that he liked the cottage they’d appropriated after everything was said and done, he couldn't avoid the path all the time. After all, money doesn't grow on trees, and a special request from a duchess wasn't something you just ignored. 

He nodded. “Duty calls I suppose.”

“Well, save me a bottle of wine then.”

“Not coming with?”

“ _You_ were the one mentioned in the letter dear, not me. With a sense of urgency, no less.” She stretched luxuriantly, preening inside at the way he eyed her. “I think that, if I do come, I’ll take my sweet time. And I’ll bring more than just the bare necessities.” 

His lip twitched. “I don’t think the unicorn will fit in a suitcase.”

He chuckled when she shoved him; full of put on outrage.

“While you are out enjoying the lovely sunshine of Toussaint, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Of course you do.”

“Oh stop your complaining.” She passed him a parchment. “Read it when you get there. It should have everything you need.”

He pocketed it, and got out of bed to go pack. 

* * *

  
  


“-ton? Milton.”

He-very reluctantly-opened an eye. This time he beheld not some lovely barmaid, but the grizzled, blunt face of the witcher. Which meant two things: he was awake, because never would he dream of such a rough face, and two, the painkillers had worn off enough for him to _be_ awake.

He grimaced. “Hello, my friend. It is good to see you, though I wish it under better circumstances.”

Geralt looked concerned. “Palmerin told me what happened.”

He sighed. “Indeed. A lowly horse cart brought me down. How embarrassing.”

“You’re alive.”

“Silver linings, I suppose. Though I would have preferred no cart at all.” 

“Sorry. I did get your message, but…”

Palmerian waved off his apologies. “Bah, not as if the cart wouldn't have run him down if you were there.”

“‘Tis true, my friend. I am merely glad their local herbalist is actually competent rather than some sawbones.” He sighed. “I am merely disappointed that I will not be able to accompany you to Toussaint.”

Geralt shook his head. “Not in your condition, I imagine. Is Palmerian staying with you?”

“Pish tush.” He huffed. “I’ve no need of a guardian, even injured as I am. He will accompany you whilst I recover here.”

Geralt turned at the sound of a door opening. In came what must be the aforementioned herbalist, a lovely woman of middling years. She fussed over the man, giggling over his quaint, knightly manner of speaking. She changed his bandages, gave him pain-deadening tea, then left him be with an admonition to not strain himself. Geralt watched her go, a small smile on his lips.

“Can see _you’re_ in good hands.”

The man spluttered, waving away his insinuations, and Palmerian butted in to help him save face. 

“Do you accept our contract, sir Witcher?”

He sighed, and nodded. “...Not like I can really ignore her grace.”

“I would say not.” Milton said firmly. “I take it he informed you of the circumstances whilst I was abed?”

“He did.” Geralt said. “What little he was able to tell.”

“Ah, yes. We are indeed lost on the subject of the beast. One of the many reasons we decided to turn to a professional.”

Geralt nodded. “Wise choice.”

“You may wish to head out soon my friend. Before the beast claims another victim.” Milton said, in a much more serious tone. “I would not wish such grizzly deaths on any more people.”

“I am, just wanted to check in on you. Hope you make a full recovery Milton.”

He smiled warmly. “Thank you, my friend. Best of luck in your search.”

* * *

_It had been some time since he'd had legs that could support his weight._

_Even after his recovery, regaining his strength had been an uphill battle. Still, now that he was well enough to go out he had business to attend to. Selling the items that were stored in their emergency hideaway was a first step, as any funds or possessions he might have had anywhere else in the world was probably nothing but dust and rot, long ago taken by others. It had come as a bit of a surprise that so much time had passed but he supposes regeneration takes a while, especially to the degree he’d been eliminated. He needed to rebuild, and the only way he could do so is by selling odds and ends here. He feels a bit guilty about selling things that don’t really belong to him-like the silver candlestick that his friend had intended to use as raw materials-but he didn't have a choice. From the layers of dust on everything he’d not been here in a while and he had no way to track him down and ask. It is entirely possible that his friend hadn’t been sure he’d even recover-and to be fair neither had he-and after so long had probably given up and deserted this place leaving the items, and him, to sit in the darkness._

_It’s after selling the candlestick that he meets_ **_her._ **

_Vampires, as a whole, don’t really keep track of dates. When you could live hundreds of years, time being measured in years or even decades didn't really carry much weight. Time for them was measured by events,_ **_personal_ ** _ones, and the memory of him first encountering his love, his mate, is so firmly rooted in his mind it acts like a marker, an anchor in the ceaseless sea of time that he lived in._

_She had followed him. She is quiet for a human, but not stealthy enough for a vampire, and so newly regenerated and vulnerable he doesn't feel like suffering the idle curiosity of just any passerby. He is also, admittedly, not in the best of moods and feels that he might give this potential mugger a piece of his mind. Besides, the shriek of terror and the scramble to run away would be satisfying when he bared his teeth and hissed at them._

_He’s...he’s not exactly expecting to be laughed at._

_“Oh my, what an alleycat you are!” She giggled._

_He’s never been more confused in his life, leaving him-despite all his claws, fangs, and terrifying strength-as lost as any babe in the woods. He stands there for a moment, at a loss, before turning to mist and essentially running away with his tail between his legs. It’s only weeks later, after seeing the posters with a crudely-drawn portraiture of her on it, that he realized that the women he’d so briefly met was none other than the infamous leader of a very large criminal organization. It explained a lot-a hardened criminal wouldn't react the same as some common cutpurse-but it’s the cocksure attitude that leaves a truly distinct impression. He’d met few in his life so confidant, most of them either dangerously so to the point of stupidity, or had the benefit of being dangerous themselves, his erstwhile friend among them. She seemed...neither. She was no powerful mage nor witcher, but she was the leader of a criminal underworld and that spoke to_ **_some_ ** _level of intelligence._

_That last bit is what got him meeting her a second time; that and her connections. Although, to be honest he will admit a wary sense of curiosity played a part._

_She noticed him quickly, which was impressive. He wasn't trying_ **_that_ ** _hard to go unnoticed, but he’d been likened to a cat in how lightly he stepped, and yet she’d somehow sensed his approach even though she couldn't possibly hear him._

_“Oh, so I’ve made kitty curious, have I?”_

_Despite his usual reluctance at dealing with strangers, he is charmed by her impertinence. She reminds him of a tailor he’d known once, the impish elf he’d counted among his small circle of friends so long ago. He allows himself a small smile._

_“And what does that make you, a mouse?”_

_“Why, he’s handsome and humorous.” She said, amused. “But, I kind of doubt you followed me for my banter. So, fess up, what's a dark stranger doing, stalking a helpless girl through the streets?”_

_He huffed. “I doubt the famous Rhenawed, leader of one of the largest criminal underbellies is ‘harmless’.”_

_“Flattery will get you nowhere.”_

_“I’ve a proposition for you.”_

_“Business?” She grinned. “Or pleasure?”_

_Where he not a vampire he might blush. He was not used to women being so...forward. It was difficult to keep his self-consciousness under control. He doubted he’d ever be truly capable of the calmness humans were sometimes capable of._

_Not that it did him much good, mind. Later, she would tell his shyness was part of his charm._

_“...Business.” He said, circling her. He’d been told it was intimidating to do that, and as he was starting to feel that_ **_he_ ** _was the mouse in this game despite being the terrifying vampire, and he was going to need whatever edge he could get. “I wish to employ your services.”_

_“ ‘Fraid I’m the leader of a bandit band, not the matron of a brothel.”_

_He was starting to lose the battle. “You have connections. Informants. I need their...talents.”_

_This seemned to sober her. “Hmm. Indeed I do. Let’s discuss that in more comfortable environs, shall we? The streets have ears, and I should know.”_

_He nodded, and followed her to a local tavern which he can’t help but notice that the local patrons don’t look...local. At all. The beggars he’d overhead whilst skulking about avoiding people had mentioned that she was outside of her normal territory of Nazair on some enterprise related to the arms trade, and it seemned that she’d brought some of her band. While one human might look like another to him, and he was never good at reading them, he was no stranger to predators like lower vampires. The way they moved, the way they eyed others considering if they were potential prey. All around him were metaphorical fleders, and he hoped this wouldn’t end badly. He had no leeway to grant him the ability to move from his bolthole to avoid attention if he was forced to kill these men._

_The lady known as Rhenawed, too, had some of the predatory air. But unlike fleders, her’s was tempered with intelligence. To him, she was more like a bruxa._

_“Barmaid, some drinks for me and my friend?” She turned to him. “What’ll you have? Wine, or their beer? They’ve got a good brandy.”_

_“I prefer stout.”_

_“Ahh, something with more_ **_body_ ** _.” She said, crossing her legs suggestively. He’s starting to think she’s doing that on purpose to keep him off-kilter. He’s never been good at emotional control, and this whole thing is just making him more and more uncomfortable. Bizarrely, it’s both unpleasant and...well, mostly unpleasant. Still there was that little, niggling thread of not exactly attraction, but maybe interest. She’s intriguing in a way, but overwhelming. He will be altogether glad to be done with this meeting._

_“Thank you.” He mutters, accepting the drink. “I intend to employ your resources in a search for someone.”_

_“Heh, speaking of body-” She says, grinning at her own terrible joke, and he has to smile a bit at it in spite of his discomfort. “Alive, or...dead?”_

_“Despite what you may have heard, I’m not an undead corpse. And neither is the one I’m looking for.”_

_“So, another of...your kind?”_

_“No, but someone that can live nearly as long.” He paused. “I was...recently incapacitated for an extended period of time. Sadly, I imagine most of those I knew are long gone. Save for one. I wish to find him, and let him know I live.”_

_Now she looked actually intrigued. “A friend of yours?”_

_“Quite possibly the last one I might have left.”_

_Now she smiled, a broad one, and a bit on the incredulous side. “Are you telling me I’m to reunite long-lost friends?”_

_He nodded. “Do you think you could accomplish this?”_

_She threw her head back and laughed. “_ **_Amazing._ ** _Frome fisstech to arms smuggling to dealing happy endings? This will probably be the most wholesome job I’ve ever been asked to do!”_

_“Do you accept?”_

_“Are you kidding? I’d accept it out of sheer novelty alone.” She chuckled. “Shake on it?”_

_They do, and that’s the beginning._

_And the end._

When he wakes from the dream, it’s slow. 

Vampires do not sleep the same as humans, more like a...trance, per say, that served the same purpose while leaving them still aware of their surroundings. That didn't stop them from dreaming, though the dreams were less ephemeral terrors of teeth falling out or waking up late for work, but more like re-hashing of previous events. Less hallucination, more...like reading a newspaper. This light version of ‘sleep’ let them keep some level of consciousness and to wake quickly.

Dettlaff didn't _want_ to wake up quickly. He held onto it for as long as he could, but he couldn't hold onto it for any longer than a few moments. After that, he was back to the stark present. He sat at the edge of the bed, glad to at least have dreamed of something pleasant this time even if it was bittersweet, rather than the horrible memory of killing…

He placed his face in his hands, shuddering as he tried not to dwell on it. Louis de la Croix’s face had appeared too often in his sleep, leaving him wrenching from it time and time again, trying to escape it and the guilt, no matter how futile it was. It left him tired and foggy, because while vampires _could_ go without, a lack of sleep was not without its effects. It also left him susceptible to a range of maladies, like despair. 

He pushed the dark thoughts out of his mind for now to focus on bald facts. He was to kill another knight, this time at one of the Duchess’ parties. This was even more difficult than the others, which had requested that he simply kill them in a specific manner, and then gave him a timeframe. This request to do the deed on a certain day at a very specific time and place was far more limiting. At least at the feast he’d been lucky enough Crespi had stepped out into his sheltered garden for a breath of fresh air. This time his target was going to be in the midst of a crowded festival, and even if his target was hidden he’d _still_ have to silently creep his way past partygoers to get to him. He was good at creeping-it was just in his vampiric nature-but even if he was truly invisible it would still be difficult not to be spied by _someone_ in a crowd. What if someone remembered the dark-haired man at the party that didn't look anything like the rest of the festival-goers? He’s not the most innocuous of people, with his permanently grim expression and inability to be at ease in crowds. 

He feels the despair trying to creep it’s way back, and he really wishes he had _someone_ to turn to, but he’s out of options. The letter that had appeared in his pocket back in Brugge had warned him not to seek help, on pain of Rhena’s death. He wished he had Regis here, the other vampire possessed a calmness of mind and clarity of logic that Dettlaff himself lacked; perhaps he could have helped him avoid all this bloodshed. But now he was in too deep, all the blood washed off his skin and clothes but he could still smell it in the seams. He might say it was because of the warning, but he’d be lying if being ashamed to ask the humanist vampire for help in...this. He winces at the thought of looking him in the face and professing that he’d sent innocent men to early graves. 

He feels, if he's truly honest...inferior to the other vampire. The man had managed to throw off his addiction and rebuilt his integrity, coming to a calmness and surety of self all without outside assistance. Dettlaff, on the other hand, had only barely achieved any semblance of calmness and self-control at the side of a friend he’d once had after _years_ of constant vigilance and effort on both his part and theirs. And then, of course, lost it all in one stupid decision. Not just friendship, but his friend. Now he had no one to turn to in this moment of ethical quandary that could act as a guide, save for another vampire that managed to achieve what he never could. It would be humiliating, and useless. What could Regis possibly do anyway? He was an accomplished alchemist, but no investigator. Also, he didn't want Regis to become entwined in something so sordid. The chances of this turning out well are...not good. He wants to minimise casualties as much as he can. 

He was startled out of his turbulent thoughts by a knock on the door. He cautiously made his way to the door and peeking through the window he saw a hooded woman. He breathed a sigh of relief and quickly ushered her in. 

“Did you-”

She shook her head, then pulled back her hood. Only now did he see she was bloodied, and from the smell of it some of it was hers. “There was a witcher there. He intervened.”

Dettlaff hissed under his breath. He needed that hand, the ring on it had been from Regis, a symbol of what to strive for and he held it dearly-

He stopped, a terrifying thought coming into his mind. What if the witcher just hadn't happened to be there, and was working with the guardsmen? “Was he... _with_ them?”

She struggled to answer. Bruxa, like Katakans and Mulas, were smarter than lesser vampires, getting human-like intelligence once they gained a century. She was still young though, barely able to blend in as a human and only just able to speak like one. “He...he asked. Where the body was. Don’t know more.” 

He bared his teeth in frustration. “Get out.”

She flinched and scurried away; radiating fear through the bond. Some little part of him was appalled at his treatment of her, but the worry was only niggling background noise now, drowned out by stomach-churning panic. It was so bad that the lesser vampires he had-what few had come with him-were getting second-hand anxiety from it, snarling and snapping and picking fights with each other. The big garkain he’d acquired on his way here had more than once attempted to go after humans despite his orders, and the ekkimarra was outright avoiding him whenever possible. Only George, the oldest member and peacemaker among them, was able to maintain any sort of order while he was busy in the city. They were having a hard time of it though, and the fledar was constantly trying to reach him, hovering at the edge of the city calling out. More than once he’d snapped an order to return to the forest, having to put more and more mental domination into the bond. It wouldn't be long before the fleder came in to find him, long-ingrained training to avoid humans be damned. He’d had that fleder so long-since he was a juvenile just getting his fangs-that they _knew_ when there was something wrong.

It was getting hard to keep them out though, especially when he so badly wanted to go out, out into the quiet of the woods and let himself be soothed by them, his pack, but he couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk missing the next order to kill, the next request to act as someone else’s monster.

* * *

  
  


“By the gods, what _was_ that creature?”

Geralt sheathed his sword, frowning. He’d just come from the shoreline where the newest victim had appeared, informed by some passing guardsman where they’d taken the body. He hadn’t expected to go from one murder site to another place of carnage. Or well, it would have been if he hadn't gotten here moments before the attack.*

“Anyone injured?”

“Ah, Gregoir and his brother, but they’ll live.” The man shook his head. “I’m glad you happened to be in the area. What a monster!”

“Less of a coincidence than you might think.” He pulled out the scroll from the Duchess.

“Oh, so _you_ are the specialist that her grace called for.” He said after reading it. “Tell me, what is the nature of that creature that attacked us?”

“Bruxa. A type of vampire.”

“A vampire? In broad daylight?”

“Some types can tolerate sunlight, but yeah, real unusual.” He agreed. Bruxas didn't like attention and usually went for the lone victim. Not that they _couldn't_ slaughter an entire garrison of soldiers, but vampires on the whole preferred not to make much of a fuss. Taking the singular peasant stumbling home after a night of drinking was far less of a hassle than killing all these people, and was less likely to get the kind of bounty that would attract a witcher. 

“Was it the beast, you think?”

“Let me examine the body, and I’ll let you know.” 

The man nodded and led him to their temporary morgue. It had once been a wine cellar, and he’s glad that the ducal guardsman knew enough to put bodies in a cool spot, especially in the hot, dry climate of Toussaint. 

“It was found just this morning.” The man said, hefting a lamp to give Geralt the best light possible in the dim conditions of the man-made cave. “De la Croix, an older knight of some renown like the others.”

“Sensing a pattern here.”

“As is our captain.” He agreed. “The wounds are the same as the others as well. They remind me of the ones my nephew got at the business end of a panther.”

“Yes, claw marks. Too deep and clean for the bruxa though, her’s aren't long enough.” He paused, remembering that katakans _did_ get longer claws the older they were. With their ability to go invisible and pass as humans...“Not going to discount the possibility that it might be another type of vampire though.” 

He continued his careful inspection of the body, noting the post-mortem wounds, the coin purse shoved down the throat, and finally-

He picked up one of the three hands. “An extra?”

“Possibly. The river is a common dumping ground. Can’t say how many times we’ve found things there.” He paused. “Or, perhaps de la Croix managed to fight back?”

He turned the hand over, and the guard next to him jerked as it moved. “What-did it just-?”

“It did. Still warm too.” He tested the reactions by running a finger lightly over the palm. The reaction was slow, but it did wriggle a bit. “Some kind of monsters can regrow limbs, but never heard of their severed limbs staying this... _fresh,_ for so long.”

“My god.” The man muttered, looking thoroughly disturbed by it. “Think it’s the beast’s?”

“Good chance that it is.” He pocketed it. “I’m going to take this to an alchemist or a mage, see if they can get more information from it.”

The guard looked reluctant to let him leave with evidence, but the duchess’ letter had left no room for uncertainty. “Very well. If you would, I’d like to take you to meet our captain. He will have more information for you and I need to report the bruxa’s attack.”

Geralt only stopped to briefly inform the men how to properly defend themselves against the bruxa in case she came back, but he doubted she would try it a second time. She’d caught them off guard the first time, the second they would be prepared and she would risk serious injury if she tried. Even regular humans could take on a bruxa if there was enough of them and they were prepared. That done, they double-timed it on horseback over to the tourney grounds, as the man he was following was in no mood to delay reporting to his superior. Not that he could blame him; a monster attack would give a sense of urgency to anyone. They made their way over to what he assumed was their temporary headquarters, set up on the tourney grounds to keep an eye on all the knights that might be potential targets for the beast. 

* * *

* I imagine skipping the chat with the fisherman leaves you _just_ enough time to intervene before she slaughters everyone. That bastard could talk the hind leg off a donkey, I swear.


	2. Moth to Flame

* * *

He and the lieutenant topped the rise coming to a stop just before the main tent, abuzz with guards both in uniform and non. The Duchess was there as well, and she turned to greet him.

“Ah, Geralt! You timed your visit well; I was about to go officiate the tournament after speaking with Palmerin.” She indicated the man next to her. “May I introduce you to Damien, captain of my personal guard. I have entrusted him with the investigation.”

Damien was a stocky, rough-looking man that looked like he did quite a bit more than making sure courtiers behaved themselves around the duchess. He recognized the type; he’d bet good money the man had been a street guard in the muck and mire of the city before he’d been given the cushy job by the side of the Duchess, and probably took his job way too seriously.

“Your grace.” He looked at Geralt askance. “Witcher.”

Oh, he could tell already he was going to have a problem with Geralt muscling in on his job. Great. Like he didn't have enough issues with way overqualified vampires trying to meddle in his investigation.

“Greetings.” Well, he may as well take the high road with politeness. “Have some news for you. Bruxa tried to attack the guardsmen that were handling the body.”

Damien raised an eyebrow and addressed the guard. “Report.”

“It’s as he says. The bitc-” He gave the duchess a nervous look. “-ah, the creature would have slaughtered us to a man if he hadn't helped drive it off. Two of us are going to have to be on bedrest for a while, but they’ll live.”

Damien chewed this over for a moment. “...Thank you, witcher. For defending my guardsmen.”

Geralt blinked, surprised. Apparently, he had a stick up his ass but did indeed care about his men, and wasn't too prideful to show gratitude to someone that prevented needless death. Maybe they could work together after all. 

“And this, ‘bruxa’? Was it the beast?”

He shook his head. “No, but I would bet it’s tied to it in some way.”

Damien considered this. “...It would seem too large of a coincidence, yes. I’ve not heard of any such creature attacking a full garrison in broad daylight.”

Geralt nodded, glad the man had a nose for the suspicious. “Bruxa prefers not to make a fuss, target lone victims. This behaviour? Highly unusual.”

Anna watched from the sidelines, fascinated. Damien had put up such a fuss about the witcher coming, and for all his bluster about how the witcher was a dangerous rouge that brought nothing but trouble, she knew well that he was simply feeling threatened by the fact he might get shown up by a stranger. Now they’d met they were actually being grudgingly polite with one another. Oh, she hoped they would get along. The two were not all that dissimilar, and once they’d get over their typical male crowing and strutting perhaps they’d find they had quite a lot in common. 

“It is a pity the creature was not killed, or captured.” Damien said, deeply annoyed. “Perhaps we might have learned something from it.”

“Doubt a bruxa would allow itself to be interrogated. Or would have had anything to say, really. They only start really being anything more than simple minded, bloodsucking leeches after a century or two.” He paused. “They are, however, social enough to be able to play well with other vampires and can follow simple orders, rather than solitary hunters like fleders.”

Damian forgot his ire for a moment. “ _Other_ vampires? Do you think...”

He nodded. “It would fit. Claws, ability to get into places unseen-”

“And a lust for blood too, yet as far as I’ve seen it’s not supped on any. No bite marks, and they’ve not been drained dry.”

“Not all of them are after blood when it comes to killing people.” He said, remembering one such Katakan that had worked as a coroner. “Knew a katakan that was a religious fanatic, murdered people he deemed heretics.”

“A religious vampire?” Damian looked incredulous.

“Yeah, I know it’s about as ridiculous sounding as a chaste wh-” He stopped himself just in time, and he could _feel_ the duchess raising an eyebrow at him. “...But some types of vampires are what we call ‘higher vampires’. They have similar intelligence to us and can take on human form.” 

“And are they just as susceptible to human...egos? Desires?” Anna questioned, curious.

“Some of them even have a sense of morals, yes. Each of them with their own flaws and virtues.” He said, thinking-with a pang-of his erstwhile friend, Regis. He missed the moonshine-swilling, philosophical vampire. 

Damien frowned thoughtfully, turning to the notes he’d taken on the victims, looking them over with a new eye. When they’d had the first victim, he’d thought the man had made some terrible enemies. The second and the third had shown up with those same claw marks, then positioned and even had props on them. He hadn’t yet had the chance to examine the third victim closely but...

“Witcher, did you examine the body?” 

He nodded. “It cut deep with sharp claws; too deep for a bruxa, claws aren't long enough. Went for the heart first, then quartered him. There was a coin purse shoved down the throat, filled with coins from all sorts of different regions.”

_Virtues._ Damien paused, thinking intently while looking at his notes. Geralt came up next to him. “Oren for your thoughts?”

“The first victim.” He started slowly. “Was Crespi. He was found propped by the town pillory, on his hands and knees, a sword hanging from his neck. At first I thought he’d annoyed the wine merchants one too many times with his cheating, but no mere merchant has the ability to kidnap a man at a feast without being seen.”

“The next was Ramon du Lac.” Anna supplied. “His body was found in the gutter, dressed in a nightshirt and cap, a pillow placed under his head and his sword replaced by a bed warmer. Ramone du Lac! A knight who but a dozen was an advisor to our father, the duke.”

“And for him, I had thought that his shady dealings might have caught up to him, but the same wounds? The same careful placement of props? No, one by itself is unusual, but two is a pattern.”

Geralt turned to Anna “ ‘Shady dealings’?”

“Well, it was rumored but no one came forth with any proof of wrongdoing.” She said evasively. 

“And the most recent, de la Croix, was no paragon either. Made a veritable fortune in the grain trade, but was infamous for his miserly behaviour.”

Palmerin snorted. “I’ve called him ‘sir de la stingy’ for a reason. He was in the habit of starving his servants and feeding them pitiable meals to save coin.”

Geralt turned to him. “You knew each other?”

“Indeed; as did Baron de Payrac-Peyan.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “...They all knew each other as well, come to think of it. They were once part of a knightly team under the previous duke’s reign, with each knight a representative of the virtues.” 

“That’s the connection!” Damien said with a sense of victory. 

His audience looked at him blankly. 

“This vampire, he’s modeling the _virtues._ ” Damien repeated.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at the odd emphasis.

“The five chivalric virtues, Geralt. Honor, wisdom, generosity, valor and compassion. These are the clear moral guidelines handed down to the knights by the lady of the lake. At the time of their dubbing, knights vow throughout their life to demonstrate these virtues.” Anna explained.

“Honor compromised by the pillory, wisdom by ridicule, generosity by a coin purse shoved down the throat. It fits, though not exactly.” Damien paused. “Did you not say that one vampire you met went after people it deemed heretics?”

The witcher nodded. “Even left pretentious notes under the title of ‘concerned citizen’ telling people to stop being ‘agents of moral decay’. And with how many street-corner preachers I keep overhearing going on about how the beast is a punishment for wrongdoing, I can’t help but see the similarities between the two.”

“Not only that, like Palmerin mentioned-” Geralt gestured to the knight. “They were once all part of a knightly team.”

Anna shook her head in disgust. “Damien, to miss such an obvious connection! It was years ago, but they were once close friends, tightly knit. And as such earned the trust of our father, the duke. We often witnessed him turn to them in delicate matters. Later, their paths diverged.”

Geralt came to the defense of Damian. The captain had made a major breakthrough that had helped Geralt’s investigation, at least he could show his gratitude somewhat. “Doubt anyone could have spotted it without enough examples to see what group the beast was targeting.”

He didn't miss the appraising look from Damien, and had a feeling he had an ally in the investigation now. 

Anna huffed, letting it go. “It is more important now to prevent further victims. At least we now know who the beast may go after. It can only be Milton, he’s the remaining member of that team. If he...my gods, I was aggrieved when you said he’d been forced to stay in velen but-” She turned to the knight. “-I do apologize Palmerin, perhaps it’s a boon that he’s safe; no way the beast would know where he is now.”

“We are indeed fortunate he is out of the way of harm for now but the creature may find his location eventually, and it’s not like he can stay out of Toussaint forever.” Damien cautioned. 

Anna sighed. “True, he would miss the duchy too much, especially the festivals. He was so looking forward to taking part in this year's hare hunt as the centerpiece of it. When Palmerin found me to say he was unable to attend, I was forced to delay the entire thing in a furious scrabble to fix it. I’ve even had to cancel that blasted shaelmaar fight because I’m too busy here!”

Geralt gave her a confused look. “‘Hare hunt?’ With him as the...hare?”

“Indeed. Courtiers are to find three hints that lead him to his hiding place but alas, we shall have to find a stand-in on short notice.” Palmerin sighed. “I cannot, as I have obligations here as the knight representing toussaint in the tourney.”

“Oh, I think we may have a replacement.” Damien said with smugness Geralt didn't know the man even possessed. It was at this time he realized the captain might be looking at him with more than just an investigation on his mind.

“What, Geralt in a bunny costume? I admit the idea has some comedic appeal, but really?” Anna said, amused.

Geralt was of the opinion that there was no appeal, but he’d come to the grudging realization that there was a reason. He sighed. “Your grace, remember the virtues? The forth one is valor. Think about it, rabbits are known for cowardice. Milton playing the part of a hare? It’s too good of a coincidence.”

“You think that...that the beast intended to attack him at the festival?”

“I would bet a barrel of the finest Château Sauternes on it.” Damien affirmed.

“Well, I hope seeing Geralt in a hare costume is worth the bankruptcy.” Anna was sharing Damien’s smug look. “Though, if you are right, I will reward you both with a barrel each of sangreal. And you, Geralt, on top of that even more worthy rewards, which we’ll discuss later.”

“Time is short.” Damien stepped towards the witcher. “You are the monster specialist, what do my men need to prepare?”

Geralt paused, thinking. More than likely, this was a katakan and that he could handle on his own. However, just in case it was one of those rare _true_ higher vampires like Regis, he’d need all the help he could get. Those were immensely dangerous, but they weren't completely invulnerable if you were well-prepared. The usual procedure was a team of witchers ambushing their target, but If he had the element of surprise and a fully equipped garrison it was still doable.

“Vampire oil to coat their blades. Your blades still wont hurt it much, with the oil it’ll keep the wound from healing as quickly. Enough guards mobbing it with blades coated in such would make it think twice.” He paused thinking. “Bombs with silver splinters will keep it from transforming, also things that deal fire damage and blindness will slow it down, keep it from escaping before I can cut off it’s head.”

Damien nodded. “I will get our alchemists to create these, yes. We only have a few hours, but it’s enough time to get at least some of that prepared.”

“First, we must find where the hare was _supposed_ to be. We must assume that the creature knew where he was going to be hiding, and we cannot afford to move that in case it suspects something.” Anna said, turning again to her courtiers. “Sandra, you helped plan this year's hunt. Go to the palace, find where he was supposed to be hiding, and report to my captain immediately. Be as discreet as possible, we do not want a hint of this to be breathed to the creature.” 

“Yes, your grace!” She said, and hurried off as well.

“Unfortunately, I will not be able to accompany you two. The next tournament is about to start, and for me to not show…” She shook her head. “I will not risk spooking the beast.”

“We’ll set a trap for it then your grace, see if we can’t prevent it from taking any more lives.” Geralt reassured her.

“Then I leave it in your capable hands,” She said, addressing them both. “And hope that wretch pays a high price for the deaths of _my_ knights!”

* * *

It was a beautiful night.

The moon was a quarter full over beauclair, and as always, the sky was clear in this semi-arid land. It was consistently beautiful weather in Toussaint, which led to it’s lesser-known title other than the land of love and wine. It was the land of the sun and warmth and brilliant red sunrises. Under the warm, starlit night the hare hunt starts in earnest, the hundreds of lanterns lighting the area looking like a miniature starfield of its own. It is perhaps quintessentially Toussaint, this scene of graceful swan-shaped boats on a lake full of pleasure-seekers, with more on the shore wandering the gardens going from one little nook to the other sampling wines and confections. It’s a beautiful scene, worthy of being captured in a painting to treasure.

And after this, Dettlaff never wanted to see the damn place again. 

He’s on the roof of one of the many smaller extensions of the palace overlooking the event. He already knows where he needed to go, but avoiding festival-goers was going to be quite the task. It’s unfortunate that the greenhouse is too far from him to jump too, but he gets as close as he can on the rooftops, then mists down to ground level between two buildings, and waits for a gaggle of inebriated party-goers to pass before quickly making his way across the walkway to the greenhouse. His only witness is a drunkard with a bottle of wine in his lap by the railing, but from the looks of his flushed face he wasn't going to be remembering much.

The ‘drunk’ watches him pass, noting the serious look on the stranger’s face, the determined walk, and the lack of drunkenness at a festival known for it. He’s even dressed in all black. If this isn't the assassin that they’re looking for, he doesn't know what is. He signals towards the buildings, and then stumbles away, keeping up the pretense as much as he can while his heart races. If he’s right he’d just seen the Beast of Beauclair, and tonight is about to erupt in chaos.

“Get ready men.” Damien murmurs to his regiment. They unsheathe their swords, already coated with the dark red of the vampire oil, a few of the ones with the best aim hefted the small but powerful bombs. They didn't have much time to prepare so the bombs are few, but it will hopefully be enough to keep the creature blinded and unable to transform long enough for the witcher to do his deadly work with his silver blade. 

The witcher himself waits in the greenhouse, sensing rather than hearing the presence of his target as the blood-red mist slinks its way through the plants. The costume, as stupid as it looks, at least obscures his face a little so the beast can’t see his eye’s tracking his movement. He tenses, ready to spring the trap.

The first indication that Dettlaff has made a terrible, terrible mistake is a sword in his gut. He’d materialized so he could sink his claws into the man, but he hadn’t even gotten the chance to unsheath. The only thing he gets a chance to make is a muffled noise of pain as the terrible burning of the oil and the silver starts twisting its way through his intestines. He has enough presence of mind to jerk away, but that only opens him up for the next line of pain: a bomb. His shriek is joined by the din of breaking pots and glass. He tries to turn incorporeal, but he’s terrified to find that he suddenly can’t, and more terrified to hear shouting and the pounding of dozens of feet. Jumping out the window, he can see that he is now surrounded by guardsmen. This wouldn't normally present a challenge, but he recognizes the red shimmer on the edges of all their blades for what it is, and knows that no matter how fast he is he can’t possibly wade through them without getting flayed. He can’t even unsheath his claws thanks to the damn bomb. They form a solid semi-circle around him, at least twenty strong, with a cliff and a witcher at his back. 

He’d rather take his chances with the guards.

They seem to know it, and he only gets to move a few feet before they light him up. In the span of seconds he is not only blinded, but on fire. He flails wildly, screaming as he’s yet again cut deeply, the bite of the witcher’s blade deep across his ribs. By pure luck his fist connects with something solid, and he hears a grunt. He staggers away from the guards and Witcher both, heading to what he hopes is the cliff. He can feel his skin bubbling from the fire, wants to scream, but the pain is matched by the fear because by the time he heals she’ll be dead, she’ll-

“Please, she’ll die, they have her and they’ll kill her, please-” He hits the railing, and hauls himself up onto it, but he still can’t transform, can’t escape, and he’s desperate. “Mercy-”

They don’t give him the chance as one of the guards throws yet another bomb that blows him off his feet, sending him plummeting down the hillside.

Both Geralt and Damien rush to the railing to watch it fall. The hillside isn't extremely steep but it’s rocky; and the bomb has given him considerable momentum. He skips down it, flailing and pinging off rocks. The flames flare brilliantly for a bit, fanned by the wind, but run out of fuel at about twenty feet. At thirty, they see it hit one of the protruding rocks _particularly_ hard-Geralt winces, even though he knows hitting that probably killed it instantly-flinging it into the lake.

“Well,” Damien says slowly, watching the ripples. “Safe to say it’s dead.”

Geralt taps his fingers on the bannister. With some kinds of higher vampires, usually nothing short of total cremation stopped them-hell, Regis had been dismembered and staked by peasants and _still_ managed to recover eventually-so ‘dead for _now’_ was probably more accurate, but ‘dead for all intents and purposes’ could also apply, depending on the vampire. Problem was, without being able to collect their head he couldn't be sure if this one was more of the nearly-unkillable type like Regis. And if it was, he had no idea how long it would take for it to recover from being stabbed, burned, pulverized, and now drowned. That was concerning enough, but what the vampire had been saying, just heard over the noise-

_They’ll kill her, please-_

Thankfully the fact witchers like him didn't have much of a facial expression to speak of didn't let on that he was worried. Damien looked supremely pleased with himself, and turned to shake Geralt's hand. 

“I am glad her grace called upon you, witcher. Not a single one of my men was injured, and we killed a beast most foul.”

He accepted the handshake. “Pity I won’t have the beast’s head for the duchess.”

“I doubt you’ll need it. She’ll simply be relieved that the creature is dead and her knights safe.”

“True.” He put on a smile to cover any worry. “And a barrel of sangreal is waiting for us both.”

“And a, ah, change of attire for you.” To his credit the man doesn't laugh, which is about the only thing that saves Geralt's dignity right now. He’s waded through muck, mire, and literal shit, but he’d rather be covered in drowner blood than wearing the damned bunny mask. So help him, if Dandelion put this in one of his ballads he would wring the bard’s neck.

“Here, your sword harness. I’ll take the... _thing_ back to Sandra, and she can put it back wherever she found this ridiculous apparel.”

“And it didn't even get singed, or torn to shreds.” He drawled, and the corner of the captain's mouth twitched, which was about as close as he’d seen the man get to a smile.

* * *

Regis had to pause for a breather at the edge of the city. He’d been trying his best to take his own advice and go easy, but the road from Brugge had been long and difficult for him. He’s still regenerating, and prone to shortness of breath if he pushed himself for too long, and sleeping on the side of the road in a tent wasn't exactly restful. He’d been lucky to get a ride on a barge for most of the way in exchange for helping the kindly captain of it with his arthritis, but he still had a way to go with all of his alchemical equipment. He would have rather left it all back in Dillingen, but he had to earn his living on the road _somehow_. Dettlaff had salvaged what he could from it and his summer cottage in Fen Carn, but as Regis had predicted the war had finally made it to his home and left its mark. All of the money-and most of his possessions-were ransacked from his home, and his cottage had only the essentials. It would be some time before he got all of his slowly accumulated wealth back, and the life of a rural barber-surgeon, while peaceful, wasn't exactly profitable.

At least most of his practice was portable, though the equipment for making the salves and regents he needed for healing his patients was a tad bulky. He had most of what he needed, though he would have to buy a still and cauldron when he arrived. His faithful ravens, try as they might, could not exactly pinpoint Dettlaff. They knew he was in the city of Beauclair, but not where he was hiding in it. He might be here a while, so he may as well get comfortable while he tries to flush out his friend and figure out just what was going on. He’d been worried when the man had suddenly left his house that they’d been quite happily sharing with only a note promising he’d be back soon. It had taken his ravens days to figure out where he’d gone, and when they’d come back they’d also brought news of mysterious deaths. Deaths that were...well, suffice to say he’d had his suspicions, but he didn't want to believe them because this was _Dettlaff._ The man was volatile sure, and had fits of violence he was not fully in control of, but premeditated murder? He just wasn't capable of such a thing. 

_Gods Dettlaff, what have you gotten yourself into?_

Wherever the man was, he could wait to be found. He was going to head to the cemetery after he got supplies in the city; the ravens had found him the secluded place just after he’d arrived at the city gate. Speaking of ravens, one came winging towards him now, squawking loudly as it circled him. He quickly got off the road out of the sight of curious eyes and dropped his pack, and the bird alighted on his arm. “What’s the matter my-”

It didn't even let him finish, telling him as fast as it could where Dettlaff was, but from the sounds of it this was anything but good news. He commands it to take him there, and the raven wings away. It's just dark enough for him to risk turning into mist and hopping up onto the roofs. From what the bird had described, Dettlaff was apparently in the middle of a fight with a witcher and seemingly the entirety of the guard of beauclair. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to prevent a bloodbath. Dettlaff was strong, and it wouldn't matter how many guardsmen there were, they would be so much paper in the face of his claws. The witcher was a concern but few witchers were on the same level-

And then the raven more _thoroughly_ described the witcher, and he felt his stomach twist. 

The only part he arrived in time for was to see the horrifying image of the falling star that was Dettlaff plummeting into the lake. His faithful familiars followed his friend down the cliff, but they were helpless to do anything but hover over the dispelling ripples where he’d gone in. He watched in shock, feeling like he’d been punched in the chest, quickly realizing that he wouldn't even be able to take Dettlaff back to the cemetery to help him recover because how in the hell would he be able to trawl the entire lake for one body? He still keeps going anyway despite knowing the futility of it.

All his speed had been for naught. Geralt-that one-man army-and with the obviously _extremely_ well-coordinated efforts of the guardsmen, had metaphorically and literally skewered his friend. There was nothing for him to do but hope Dettlaff pulled himself out of the lake, and when he did, _didn’t_ immediately go into one of his fits and kill a bunch of people and attack Geralt. He needed to find his witcher friend, and hopefully prevent a war between the witcher and Dettlaff that might result in the death of one or both of them. 

He carefully followed Geralt’s progress through the city, a step behind to avoid the Witcher’s sharp senses. The birds brought him back news of him meeting with the duchess, who was apparently the one who had employed Geralt to kill the ‘beast of beauclair’ (he’s both offended on behalf of his friend for the phrase and its connotations, and uncomfortable at the...accuracy of it. Dettlaff was hardly the most well-adjusted person, even among vampires.) Geralt accepted his bag of coin; which makes him even more unsettled that his friend’s life had just been exchanged for coin, and _that_ coin given to another friend. He’s struck by a moment of dissonance at the turn of events his life had suddenly taken, then listens carefully to the bird’s next statement.

...A vineyard? A _vineyard?_ Geralt and...landowner just shouldn't be in the same sentence. The sense of dissonance only grows stronger at the mental picture of the man keeping track of how many barrels have been produced and hiring sommeliers to quality check the product. More than likely the place would turn into an ill-maintained pit of scattered bomb components, monster parts, and mud-caked floors. Geralt was hardly the most tidy person, and would smell of drowner and have a scraggly beard in his default state unless he was around Yennefer, in which case he’d put in an effort of some sort. He pitied the poor vineyard, but at least he knew where to meet Geralt in more secluded circumstances now. That would have to wait, unfortunately, as the witcher was Anna’s guest for tonight. Regis sighed, and departed for the cemetery.

* * *

Geralt laid back on the bed that the duchess had lent him for the night upon her insistence, and tried not to feel claustrophobic as the down mattress slowly swallowed him. He’d once heard of mimics that posed as furniture or other innocuous objects to eat the unwary, and briefly entertained the mental picture of him just continuing to sink while the bed digested him. He snorts, then sits up to finally read the scroll that Yen had sent with him now that he at last has the peace and quiet to do so. 

_Dearest,_

_I suspect weighty affairs, rather than merely the Wine Festival, have drawn you to Toussaint. Perhaps you'll find time to probe a certain matter in spite of this. I recently came across the mention of one Professor Moreau, a scholar in Beauclair who conducted research into witcher mutations. Though the details are rather murky, as is the location of the scholar's laboratory, his journal could contain more information. It lies buried with him in his tomb._

_I enclosed a map I found in the tome I happened upon. Though less than completely legible, I trust it will prove useful nonetheless. Whatever you decide, please take exceedingly good care of yourself._

_Your Yen._

An alchemist that studied witcher mutations? Well, that _would_ be interesting. He sends Yen a brief mental ‘thank you’ for her foresight, and is glad that he’d gotten done with his mission so quickly. He has the time to pursue side jobs before he makes his way back, or maybe have her come here. He can think of no better place to extend their indefinite vacation than a beautiful vineyard in Toussaint. He wrote her a letter letting her know about it-wishing he could see her look of incredulity about him being the proud owner of a vineyard-and left it on the bedside. The sooner he looked into the mutations, the sooner he could get back to more important things, like spending his time doing absolutely _nothing._ Or Yen. Or both, really. 

With that pleasant thought in mind, he’s able to ignore the little, niggling worry in the back of his head and sleep. 

The next day in Toussaint dawned bright and sunny as usual, and it was a nice change of pace from the north, which was damn near always rainy and full of mud. He sent the letter off, and then got Roach ready for their ride. On her broad back, he realized it was actually good to be out riding in such a pleasant country rather than it just being a way to get from point A to point B. Even Roach seemned to agree, happily trotting along with an extra lift to her step to the place where the alchemist was buried. He’d go visit the guy’s lab, gather what he could, then take it back to study at leisure in his new...home? That was going to take some time getting used to. Now that he thought about it, this place was not just a home, but also a source of income. The vines could produce wine that he could sell, giving him a steady source of coin that didn't involve constant movement, maiming and/or death, and the potential to get stiffed in the end. 

For the first time in his life he...he had the option of _leaving_ the path.

“Hey, watch it!” Someone snapped and he pulled on the reins abruptly, making Roach snort and stamp irritably. 

He absentmindedly patted her neck soothingly, still turning everything over in his mind. He’d never had the option of turning from the path before. No matter how handsomely a job paid, it was never enough to let him just retire on it, not with how long witchers lived (if they didn't get killed, that is). Yen might’ve made enough doing soceresse’s work for both of them, but it wouldn't be fair to either of them for him to leech off her for the rest of their lives. With this, not only could he provide for himself but for Yen too, without having to go riding off to find some monster to kill and come home smelling like drowner. 

He was...honestly tempted to just skip the cemetery and go straight to the vineyard. For a moment he was torn between wanting to just go see the place, but part of him was that ingrained witcher curiosity, and the need to make sure witcher secrets were safe. He ground his teeth in frustration, for the first time his witcher instincts at war with a previously nonexistent desire to be...well, not a witcher. 

Roach stamps her foot in impatience and that is what snaps him out of it. _Fine, a compromise then;_ He growled at himself, _We find this place quick, and then straight to the vineyard. No side quests, no distractions, no killing_ fucking _drowners._

He should have known better than to jinx himself.

This lab is really getting on his nerves. First, just finding the entrance had been an ordeal in and of itself, then the _traps_ . Gods above, the traps. The spikes had been easy, but the stupid panthers were murder. Both literally and figuratively; he was going to be a mess when he finally showed up at the vineyard. It even took a dig at his hatred of portals, what with the stupid portal puzzle that he’d have to sort out. He’d killed the gargoyle, but as he stood before the place where he’d have to insert the hand, he got a good look around. There were...a lot of doors. Looking at all those archways with all the possible combinations, he realized he’d be here for hours to figure the damn thing out. Fuck, the other man that had gotten this far had the right of it, rappelling across the abyss would be miles faster that this crap. It took an intense struggle-because as little as he liked portals, he liked heights and long drops even _less_ -he forced himself to go back and take the rope because he was desperate to get back to the vineyard after all this.

He had never tensed every muscle before, but he did it on the way over that rope. His teeth were aching by the time he’d made it over because his jaw was clenched so hard. He allowed himself the sweet relief of solid ground for a few moments before walking into the lab, and came face to face with a nasty surprise.

“YOU!”

They said it simultaneously. In almost the exact same tone, too. Gaetan was a face he’d never wanted to see again, not after how easily he’d run off after that bomb, making Geralt curse his ass and vow to kill him next time they’d meet if only for the fact the man had gotten the drop on him.* Maybe he should have seen it coming; sneaking around traps rather than confronting them was just the kind of thing a cat school witcher would do. Didn't make this any less of a shock though. 

Gaetan licked his lips nervously. He was, again, at a distinct disadvantage. He’d gotten the portal opened up that goes directly to the lab and the man’s journal from his grave like he’d been tasked to, but he’d not been able to resist taking advantage of the setup here. He’d just recovered from using the chamber, and like a complete fucking novice he’d left all of his gear in a pile too far to reach. If he hadn’t gotten greedy he would have been making his way out of here while the other man was fiddling with the stupid portals. He tries the tactic that worked so well last time: stalling.

“So,” He starts to shuffle towards his gear. “...See you got wind of this place too?”

Geralt narrows his eyes. Oh, he’s not falling for that this time. Not like it would work, the bastard didn't even have a bomb on him. Gaetan knows it and gives up on dialogue, just diving straight for his gear. Geralt rushed forward, throwing a blast of aard at the other witcher, and he shrieks as he’s thrown against one of the big glass containers hard enough to crack it. He still manages to scramble away, and then comes the most downright _infuriating_ fight Geralt has ever had. 

He will give Gaetan this: he’s damned fast. Without the gear he’s helpless of course, and one good blow would be enough, but without the gear he’s also even faster and more nimble. Trying to get a blow in is like, well, trying to catch a greased cat. The feline witcher practically ricocheted off the walls, and most of his signs-with all the walls to dodge behind-are almost useless in such a small space. Even axii is futile because the damned man, _despite_ what he’d said about being ‘nuts’* enough to slaughter a whole fucking village is apparently not soft in the head after all, so axii does jack shit to him. He’s also smart enough not to come close enough for yrden, which just solidifies Geralt’s idea that he wasn't some drooling basketcase; nope, just a run-of-the-mill homicidal asshole. Gods, he is breaking the fucks legs-if he can catch him, which, so far, isn't happening.

It comes to a point where both of them are gasping for breath across from each other, glaring daggers. A table is smoldering _and_ broken, the glass container that had been cracked before is now completely shattered, and papers have been thrown about so much in the whirlwind that some of them are now on the ceiling. 

“So,” Geralt gasped, figuring he might try stalling for once “What did...you come here, _hnng,_ for?”

Gaetan is willing to go with this. “Fuck...if I...know. Alchemist...hired me. Thomas’ a prodigy, guy’s...got a lotta valuable knowledge.”

“Gonna...kill this guy...and the whole village too?”

“Oh, _fuck_ you.” Gaetan snapped. “Self-righteous prick-”

Geralt rather rudely interjected with a bomb. Northern wind, to be precise, so the bastard would be slowed enough for him to finally catch. He does get a facefull of it, but he _still_ manages to rabbit away, only slightly slower. He chases after the man, who has decided to take a tunnel in one of the walls of the place. If this tunnel leads to an escape route, he swears to god he will track this man down and not just break them, but chop his damned legs _off_ -

It's not an escape route. It’s worse. 

He’s pretty sure that Gaetan has run here as a last resort, and he is indeed too damned preoccupied trying not to get torn to shreds by centipedes to go after him. Gaetan is in dire straits too though, because before he’d had his armor and swords to protect him if the beasts detected him while he stole a few eggs. This time around he’s doing some very impressive acrobatics to keep the pinchers away from his internal organs. He’s just barely able to get past them this time, and tears off for the tunnel back to the lab. He can hear Geralt behind him, though he’s got a good lead this time around. Not good enough of a lead to get his armour on though and he streaks-quite literally-through the lab only _just_ able to grab the fucking journal on his way back to the rope. He has never rappled so quickly before in his life, and only just reaches the other side when he sees Geralt appear on the platform. He curses blackley as he realizes he has no _knife_ to cut it, and practically tears his nails off trying to undo it while Geralt takes potshots at him with the crossbow. He’s got the column between them though, and for once his skinny frame is an advantage in a fight because he’s just small enough for it to cover him. 

Finally, he gets the rope undone. By now the bomb’s effects have worn off and he rolls to the safety of the archway, though not without a crossbow bolt hitting his shoulder joint. It’s not enough to slow him down, and Geralt is practically ready to have a screaming fit when he sees the man scamper away to kill innocent people another day. No way would he figure out a way across in time to catch the man. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to calm down, knowing screaming would do nothing. Now was the time to figure out how to get out of here; because he would be stuck in deep shit if that rope was the only way out. He hadn't even activated the portals on the other side before rappelling over because he’d wanted to skip them, and he’d been dumped into the mess too soon to get a look around here and see if he could activate them on this side. 

He does find that there's two portals out actually. The one that’s likely connected to the puzzle room of portals he can’t activate, but there is another that does have a crystal that responds easily to aard. He’s seriously tempted to walk out this place and never look back, but the instinct to be nosy is too ingrained for him to ignore all of this. He meticulously gathers all the research-no mean feat, with all the damage done to the place-having to carefully step around the spilled liquid from the two big glass containers that he’d seen earlier. Whatever it is, it smells sickly sweet and cloying, sticking at the back of his throat. It doesn't smell like any alchemical component he’s run into before, and he’s wary after getting a nasty burn from one of the other burst jars in this place. He’s disgusted to discover there's a corpse sprawled out on the floor that must have been in the containers, and hopes that whatever poor bastard the alchemist had used for his experiments had a quick death. He’d already found a handful of human organs in other jars, and had a sneaking suspicion that the man hadn't gotten them from willing donors. He minces around the spill, noting that at least it seems to be drying quickly and hopes it’s not deadly in vapor form. 

He carefully gathers up the research into a neat bundle, slipping it into one of his many pockets. These he will take along to read back at corvo bianco, but there's other entries here that contain some of the alchemist’s notes. These are crystals, and he’ll have to look at them here as he doubts the vineyard has the setup for it. He manages to find five, and thankfully the megascope here hasn't been too badly damaged. Even so the entries are slightly distorted, but he can still hear the alchemist talk clearly enough.

_“The eighteenth of yule, year 1102.”_ The man starts, and he’s impressed that Yen managed to find this; this is damn old. It’s also a testament to just how important the man must have been at one time for him to have enough entries out there about his work to get Yen’s attention, and that of some alchemist willing to hire a witcher to find his lab. He’s willing to bet he’d been a great influence in his field alongside other alchemists like Corvinarus. 

He listens carefully, and is floored when the man gets to the part about his son. _Reversing_ witcher effects? That’s...ambitious, to say the least. It makes him profoundly uncomfortable in a way that’s difficult to understand. No matter how much he’d entertained the thought of maybe stepping off the path, having the path removed completely was just...disturbing, in a way. He’s not sure who-or even what-he’d be if that was suddenly taken away. Sometimes he wasn't sure if his mutations really affected his mind, _really_ made him less emotional, less human, or if it was…

He turned away from the wall he’d been staring at to take out the entry, putting away those thoughts. He really didn't want to engage in introspection right now. Instead, he listened closely to the man’s experiments, his studies on toxicity, the addition of centipede eggs. He mentions how he’d been able to change mutagens and he’s impressed. This man may have been the one to discover that, and wonders if that’s his claim to fame. 

Through all of it, though he’s...a bit unsettled, on how he keeps referring to his ‘subject’. Either the man is experimenting on multiple people, or that’s his son he’s referring too in such a dehumanizing way. Either is bad in unique ways, and he keeps thinking of all those organs in jars and the corpse not ten feet from him. Maybe the man thought his pursuit was noble, but the means... 

Or maybe that was his cynicism getting the better of him. Whatever the case, at the end of it all, Thomas Morue was left defeated anyway, unable to reverse anything. He was sitting on the floor in this entry, looking tired, dirty, and in pain; though mental or physical or both was hard to tell through the grainy picture. 

_“Years of experiments, research, sacrifice-all for naught! I have failed to achieve my defined objective. Each mutation I applied to my subjects proved ineffective when applied to Jerome. What I meant to ‘cure’ him of his witcherism, that which I meant to restore to him a normal life, only deepened his mutations, further augmented his speed and strength, rendered him yet more inhuman.”_

The man looked up from the floor, across to the stills and jars and equipment, the best of it’s kind and still not good enough.

_“It seems my son must remain a witcher forever. I have failed. The time has come to abandon this place, return home, to Lydia. She may yet deign to take me back. The contraption and mutagens I leave here. Let them wither and crumble-as did my dreams of regaining my son.”_

After that, there was an echoing silence.

He sighed, breaking the silence, and took a look at the contraption that the man had been using, trying to see if any of it had been damaged in the fight. The stills and everything else seemed okay; they were sturdy, heavy things that were bolted to the ground. He closely examined the contraption that must have held his son to introduce the mutations, and feels like cold fingers are crawling up his spine. He and his fellow witchers never liked to talk about sad Albert, being strapped to it while the decoctions were slowly dripped into their veins to make them into witchers. The cold sweats, then the fever, then the _pain-_

And he’d gone through that twice, having had additional experimental mutations applied to make him a freak even among witchers. He’s understandably apprehensive about a third round of this crap. The fact that this thing looks like an iron maiden doesn't help. He _really_ doesn't want to step into this thing, and tries to stall by digging around for anything he missed. This time he busies himself with poking about in the discarded armor that the other witcher left behind. Maybe he’d find whatever the other man had been sent to fetch for his benefactor, and does indeed come up with a few things. 

First is a decorative vial, made of mother-of-pearl with a residue of what looks like blood. He takes a sniff but he can’t really identify it. He pockets the curiosity and looks at the next item, a sheaf of papers explaining some of the man’s work. He looks them over, and pockets these as well. To his delight, he does find something that might make up for this horrible experience: a set of griffin school armor diagrams. He examines them with a critical eye, noting that they seem even better than the other set he had, and pocketed those too. He sits down to eat something-lip twitching into a smile at the frown of disapproval Regis would’ve leveled at him for eating in the lab-and went over some of the notes about the machine that the man had been using. From what he understood, the thing that he couldn't help but thinking of as sad Albert's prettier cousin was designed to turn the mutagens into an aerosol form, instead of feeding it directly into his veins. He stares at it for a long, long moment, and it almost seems to be staring back.

Geralt would never call himself a coward. Nor would anyone else, not if they didn't want to get his fist in their face. Still, he would let anyone call him a coward for looking away from that iron torture device and walking away.

He walks back over to the alchemist’s workbench, allowing himself a moment to just sit on one of the few intact chairs and breathe. He’d come all this way past obstacles and traps just to be too terrified to step into the damned machine. Sure, he could reason it as being stupid to subject himself to unverified experiments, but the truth of it is that he’d rather swallow his pride and admitted that he _never_ wanted to go through anything like the trials again. He may be sure of his decision, but he still feels like shit for his cowardice. That on top of tired, bloody, sweaty, and slightly singed. He sighs, and addresses the only audience in the room: the corpse.

“...You look how I feel.” he grunts.

No answer. Oh well, corpses weren't known for their conversational skills any-

“Nnnk.”

They probably heard him scream in Beauclair. 

* * *

*I always thought it a bit stupid of Gaetan to attack Geralt with his wounds after throwing the bomb rather than booking it like the weasly lying bastard he is and hopping over traps or going around puzzles is just the kind of sneaky shit a cat witcher would do, which is why he’s here playing a Laura Croft.

**If you have Geralt actually investigate the bodies closely, you’ll find some interesting details, namely: in the houses, there’s a man that had been killed in the middle of making dinner-food still on the stove-a woman-stabbed in the back, possibly running away-and thirdly a male with precision cuts-not messy slashes-to major arteries. Taking that all together, it sounds less like ‘I didn't  _ mean  _ to kill those bystanders, I couldn't control my rage’ and more like real life terrorist and guerilla warfare terror tactics. That is, killing an entire village while leaving one witness alive but not a helpful one; that is, a person that can’t provide key information like where they went or who they were with etc. to spread fear (usually a blind or deaf person, or in this case a child) as a way to send a message. In this case the message is ‘try to kill me for that bounty, and I’ll kill not only you but your entire family, friends, and neighbors; leaving your children orphans in the middle of a war zone.’ Is it horrifying? Yes. Is it effective? Also yes. 


	3. Mr Bones Wild Ride

* * *

_ There’s fire in his veins but this is what it  _ **_takes,_ ** _ what it takes to be a witcher- _

“-  _ leave _ you there-your own-”

_ Claws across his skull, and he sees a little piece of ear go spinning to land in the dirt-  _

“-wouldn't have-lone-”

_ -a mouthful of teeth on his arm, sunk into the meat of it, bloody teeth grinning- _

“-someone-help-”

_ -Bomb burst too early, and he can feel the burn of shrapnel as it burrows its way into his chest; his face- _

“-laff volunteered-”

_ -The face is kind but hands are not as they feed another round into his veins under the promise that this is it, this is the one that’ll  _ **_work-_ **

“Who?-”

_ -the pain comes on like a charging fiend and after that it's white eating away at everything; white, white, whi- _

  
  
  


Velen, year 1109

He’s not all that picky of a witcher.

Really, he wasn't.

Still, killing drowners was getting a bit dull even if their fins were the most reliable sort of money in this whole ploughin’ business. Them, and all the clap-ridden necrotwats was his bread and butter, but while it filled his pockets it didn't exactly fill him with joy. It was time he moved onto bigger-and better paying-things. Things that would leave him in the good pasture for at least a short while enjoying better fare than whatever could be scavenged in a swamp. He had an appetite that was disproportionate for his tall, skinny frame even among other witchers, a profession that involved a lot of damned ‘exercise’ (to put it lightly). He’s quite sure that he spent half of his earnings on food alone, and it wasn't even good food at that. While he was never one to turn down a meal (after the hellish experience becoming a witcher and being fed that special, cocksucking ‘diet’ to prepare him for it, he’d developed an obsession with food, or anything that could be loosely described as such) traveler’s tack was, to put it bluntly, the kind of thing that tried to choke you going down, then tried its damndest to get its revenge coming out the other end. 

But he’d survived witcher school and then  _ not  _ died on his first contract because he was not a moron with eyes bigger than his stomach. The only time his eyes were any larger than the squinty little slits that they were was when he was eyeing a genuine opportunity that didn't involve becoming a beast’s buffet, and he just may have come upon one. 

_ “Yeah, ‘n me great granda jus’…yanno, stuck the big git with it, and it- It just crumpled, yanno?” _

_ He grimaced, trying to think through all the moonshine. “Wha’… just like that?” _

_ “Jus’ like that. On me mum’s warty backside, that’s wha’ the blade did.” Gregor took another swig. “ ‘Course, didn’t do ‘em much good when some bugger stuck him with a ploughin’ fork for cheatin’ with the cards. Went nasty. Pity he dinna have it with him went playing, they’d’a let him alone, or get a taste of sting.” _

_ “Where’s the thing now, y’think?” _

_ “Prob’ in his ol’ hunting hut inna woods, but you ain't gonna catch me looking for it. Too many ploughin’ drowners out there.” _

One thing that he could thank those godforsaken trials for was no pissing hangover after all that, or else he’d be like Gregor, passed out in his hut. Though, as he splashed through another squelchy bit of mud, Gregor just might be right. Still, it was a small price to pay to find the famed sting, the weapon that vanquished the brute of lyria. If a weapon was powerful enough to let a pox-faced poacher take on a fiend and be anything other than a greasy smear afterwards, it was something he wanted. He just got lucky that finding Gregor’s sheep intact and unmolested (though probably not so unmolested now- That man had a… _ thing _ for that sheep) led to the man sharing his moonshine and his story about his great grandfather. And, more importantly, that the blade hadn't been sold but was probably still out in his grandfather’s hut, out of reach from the common man but not for the entry-level witcher such as himself. Now, that didn't mean he was going to like tramping through this swamp though. He never liked swamps, but this one was…well, what it even  _ was  _ remained just outside the handful of adjectives he knew that aren't swears. Something about it made the hairs at the back of his neck stand up, and the way it was just so  _ quiet  _ told his instincts something was wrong no matter how inert his medallion was. His horse seemed in agreement, its ears flicking nervously, but it hasn't bucked him off yet.

They slowly made their way through the underbrush, moving as quietly as possible. Something about the place made it feel like breaking the quiet was like shouting in a library, devoid of the sound of large animals. Why would a hunter have a shack in the middle of a swamp if there’s nothing…to…

He stopped, feeling his stomach sink.

Sure enough, when he looked behind him there was fog there that wasn't there before. He swallowed, and kicked his horse into a gallop. He barreled for the edge of the swamp, but the fog surged forward, cutting him off. He tried his best, but he knew that he was being herded and try as he might he was slowly being pushed towards the center of the swamp. He thought to go into the fog, but one inhale of it left him choking. He was, to put it lightly, terrified. He’d only ever fought drowners and nekkers, not fuckin’ magical fog. His medallion was doing a jig on his collar, and that was a  _ really  _ bad sign.

The fog encircled him, and his horse finally had enough. Despite Axii, it bucked him and tore off, probably to suffocate in the fog and take all of his supplies with it, the stupid thing. He’d no doubt be joining it, too, but he still unsheathed his silver sword, downed a potion, and cast Quen. If he was going down, he might as well give whatever this was the middle finger.

Giggles echoed around him, soft and feminine and so  _ very  _ creepy, and he kept his head on a swivel to try and spy movement, to figure out where it was coming from,  _ anything _ . The dense fog gave nothing away, and when he was about to go batshit from the suspense, three figures appeared in a triangle around him.

They were three svelte young women, naked and unashamed. They  _ looked  _ human but so did a lot of monsters, and he didn’t let his guard down for a second.

“My, my, what luck that a handsome young man decided to join us,” said one, who looked to be the oldest.

“Oh, I know you aren't talking about me,” he quipped, using wit to cover fear.

“So humble,” another crooned. 

They started to close in, and he tensed, ready to swing.

“Oh, is he going to teach us a lesson with his big, big sword?” The third giggled; the youngest.

“Put that away before you hurt someone,” one of them said, looking amused. “We didn't get you all the way out here just to have to kill you.”

“Well, much as I’m glad I’ll live to fuck another day, I’m  _ really  _ not sure what you want with little ol’ me,” he drawled, glad his voice didn't shake. He was sure that these were sorceresses of some kind, and he was up shit creek with three of them getting the drop on him. 

“Why, to offer you a  _ contract,  _ of course- What else would we do with you?” She flashed him a seductive smile, “Well,  _ other  _ than the obvious.”

“Couldn't have just posted it on a notice board?”

“Not many of those in our neck of the swamps, witcher.” 

“...Fair enough.” He sheathed his weapon, because it’s not like they couldn't have turned him inside out anyway. Anyone who could call up a fog like this and walk buck-naked through drowner-infested swamp was not going to be dissuaded by a sword, no matter how long or strong it was. “What can I do for three pretty ladies, then? I don’t know if I can take all of you at once, but I’m game to try.”

They laugh, delighted. He’s always found his wit is as likely to get him  _ out _ of trouble as in it, and people tended to be less likely to kill him when they could laugh at him instead. It’s unlikely that they’ll kill him now if they need him to fulfill a contract, but he’s not one to take chances.

“Oh, we’ve a different target in mind for you. Something worthy of your  _ skills.” _

“So, a cockatrice? Perhaps a mighty wyrm?”

The youngest giggled at that, but the other two ignored him to step claustrophobically close. 

“What a tongue you have on you.” The oldest purred, and he had a feeling that the time for jokes was gone. “We’ll have to ensure that it pleases none but us, won't we sisters?”

“Can’t have him blabbing, oh no.” The other agreed, and grabbed his jaw in a firm grasp. It was unimaginably strong, and didn’t budge when he tried to pull away.

“Won't breathe a word.” He mumbled around the grip, heart pounding.

“Oh, we know.” She said, smiling cruelly. 

It started as a tickle in his throat, but got worse. He was soon gasping and coughing, his eyes watering, as he felt like a hairy wad was clawing its way up his throat. He coughed it up and she caught the glowing yellow orb with ease, keeping a firm grip on it as it struggled like a caged bird. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. Not a groan, not a whisper. She looked smug, and while he wasn't the quickest on the uptake he could guess what she’d done.

“With that taken care of, let us move on to the matter at hand.” The eldest gave the ball a meaningful squeeze, and he felt like there was a vice around his throat. “You will earn your voice back, and rewards besides, by acting as our proxy.”

“Our mother has overstepped her bounds,” the middle child hissed. “She has grown mad with power and bloodlust. She drains dry the offerings we gather to further her own power, and takes more besides. Velen is drowning in blood, all of it to satiate her appetite.”

“And she leaves naught but  _ scraps  _ for us!” The youngest whined. 

“If she continues, there won’t be even that,” muttered the eldest.

His eyes widened.  _ Offerings? _ He had a sinking feeling about the nature of the offerings, but he tried to ignore it. He does not have the kind of legendary strength and skill of his tutors to be in a position to object. Hell, now that they’ve taken his voice he can’t even question why they’re having him do it instead of themselves or even what they want him to  _ do _ .

Like she’d read his mind-and she probably had-the eldest spoke. “She keeps the source of her power hidden from us, dear witcher. We have scryed it, done all we can to see what it is, but it is beyond our sight. She would know of our intrusions should we encroach on the place where she keeps it hidden.”

“Thus,  _ you  _ are to walk in the lion's den, to act as this year’s champion.” The middle one said. At his confused look, she elaborated. “Each year we find ourselves a strapping young man-”

“And no one fits that bill better than a witcher-” The youngest interjected, poking a finger into the meat of his arm.

The eldest huffed, amused “-To play the role of the champion. He descends into the bowels of the earth to do battle with the metaphorical spirit of winter.”

Lethal combat as a form of sacrifice was a component in a lot of rituals so he has to wonder just how many champions  _ won _ that ‘metaphorical’ battle, but it’s not like he can ask. 

“You will go into the cavern, find what the source is, and either take or destroy it. Even your swords, silver or non, will be of little use to you; only this will have any effect.” The eldest handed him a peculiar knife, made of some metal he didn't recognize. “Once she is severed from her source, we can do the  _ real  _ work of destroying her when she is weakened.”

“Well witcher? What say you?” The youngest said.

He affords himself the vanity of seeming to consider their contract, but he doubts they’d let him leave with anything but a yes so he nodded.

“Wonderful,” the eldest purred. “Let’s get you ready for meeting our  _ esteemed _ mother.”

The fog closes in, and so does unconsciousness.

* * *

_ Pain, oh gods  _ **_pain_ ** _ like none he’d ever known before- _

“-the beast of-clair’”

_ All the nerves are alight and he can see them like the crowns of little trees, their branches on fire- _

“-not-sed-”

_ There's teeth gnawing their way through the marrow, to the root, to the center of him- _

“-killed-brought you back-”

_ nothing like this- _

_ White. _

He wakes. 

_ Well, that’s a surprise,  _ he thinks muzzily as he comes to.  _ Wasn't expecting to wake up alive. _

He shifts, and slowly pulls himself up. He can’t get onto his own two feet yet, but he can at least sit up. He looks around blearily through two tiny pinholes- he can feel the weight of a mask on his face- and at least a dozen sets of eyes look back. They were all young men, locals from the look of it. Each freshly washed and in a simple white shift, including-after a quick check-himself. They’d shaved his head and- oh gods - _ everywhere  _ else, too, and he  _ really  _ doesn't want to think about who did that to him while he was unconscious. At least they’d let him keep his armor on under it, and he could feel the hard bundle of his swords wrapped in a sheet under him. He could feel the rocking of the wooden floor under him as well, and he was quite sure they were in an enclosed wagon trundling its way up a steep slope. 

“Are you… Are you the champion?” Said a teen next to him who was barely past puberty.

He frowned at the smell on the man’s breath. It was sickly sweet, cloying, and his eyes were glazed. Looking around, all the men seemed very out of it.  _ Drugged to keep them calm.  _ He looked away from the man next to him, ignoring the statement. Not like he could hold a conversation anyway. Eventually, after a few minutes the cart ground to a halt and the door opened. 

“Come along gentleman,” Cooed a female voice.

They went, meek as lambs, and since he didn't feel a quiver from his medallion it wasn't a magical suggestion. Whatever his companions were dosed with, it left them docile and willing to go along with suggestions. Granted, once they got out of the wagon, the sight of a dozen succubi in some ugly bat-like masks probably helped. Tits are tits, no matter what they’re attached to, and the men around him goggled at the sight. They weren’t his type, so he paid them no mind, following along behind them.

The succubi placed crowns of wolfsbane and belladonna flowers, dittany, yew and cypress twigs on all of them, then painted them with red ocher in two lines over the eyes and mouth. Even he gets the treatment over his mask, and it smells strongly of pig fat and rabbit blood. Next, they take cypress branches and dip them in more blood- he’s not sure, but he thinks it’s human -and whip the branches lightly over them, staining the shifts with streaks of blood. 

Prettied up, they’re led to an open clearing ringed by small birch trees strung with ribbons, blown eggs, straw dolls; all typical spring decorations across rural communities. It lies just below the giant tree and he can’t help but glance at the huge oak towering over them all, far bigger than it has any right to be, and it menaces like a predatory animal crouched on the crest of the mountain. He swallows, wondering just what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

In front of him is what he thinks is the head priestess or maybe even the ‘mother’ that they’d referred too. She’s bare-breasted, wearing nothing other than a griffin skin draped around her and a string skirt, markings painted on her eerily perfect skin with ash and red ocher. Her mask, rather than a bat, is that of an old woman; the wrinkled leather at odds with her beautiful youthful body. 

If this isn't the mother, he’s not sure who is, and he becomes absolutely certain of it when she focuses her gaze on him and he feels pinned like a butterfly under glass. There’s power here like none he’s ever encountered, leagues beyond her daughters. Almost automatically and without real conscious control he falls into that little blank mental space he occupied during meditation and while fighting for his life, so that all she sees if she looks through his mind is smooth white noise.

All around him the succubi bow, murmuring  _ ‘she-who-knows’ _ with a creepy sort of revanace, and that’s when she speaks. It’s not a language he recognizes, not elven nor dwarf nor human, and he’s fairly competent with languages. It’s a guttural, grating noise that doesn't sound entirely human, with sibilant consonants that punctuate every other phrase. It sounds like it’s something spoken through a mouthful of fangs, and for all he knows she just might have such a mouth under that mask. 

The succubi rise and pick their men, leading them to lie on skins, and he can guess what’s going to happen to them. No spring rite is quite complete without a gratuitous orgy, and he hopes he’s not going to have to join in. He’s too sober for any of that.

The “mother” steps down and approaches him, and he stands as still as a rabbit when faced with the wolf. He can feel his medallion quiver like a leaf and he’s ready for anything, but all she does is slip her arm under his until they’re linked, and leads him-not to the orgy that’s already started-but to a hole in the earth framed by roots.

“Here we part ways, my champion,” She murmurs, voice soft and jarring with how normal it sounds. “Take the descent.”

Then she kisses him on the forehead, the scent of her- blood and black earth and ozone -settling around him like a benediction, and he starts to move into the bowels of the earth. To no one’s surprise, he sees roots slither up like snakes behind him, blocking that way out. As soon as the roots have closed around him, he takes off the stupid mask and the shift, throwing them over an arm.

The way is lit with torches, and he stops at a chamber that's dominated by a crude wooden statue of… _ something _ that looks like a bat; he’s not sure. It’s ugly, for one, and its features are obscured by all the layers upon layers of tallow from the candles set upon its head, and speckled with blood. It also had strands of henbane, belladonna, and mandrake woven around its neck, and off to the side there's a small work table with jars of unguent. A quick whiff tells him that it's a distillate of those herbs, and he knows that this shit is potent stuff and pretty damned toxic, but in small doses he knows it could be used to induce visions so it was probably used as part of these rituals. Drinking it led to a pretty bad case of the shits though, so it was probably rubbed on the gums or- if you wanted to go the traditional way of the skellige druids - _ under  _ the foreskin, and while that sounded just like some crap some spring fertility cult would pull he really hoped that wasn't the fate of the men topside. 

He continues his examination to the offerings of grain and butchered and burnt bones that lie at its feet, though thankfully they seem to just be various farm animals, like pigs and cattle. Just between the feet of the crouched beast is a small figure of a woman made of straw and dressed in cloth, her neck adorned with strings of blown eggs and snail shells, a crude face drawn on in the same ocher mix he had on his mask. In front of the beast and the straw figure are wooden statues that face the main two. One a young woman, another a middle-aged one, and the last an old woman, all of them wreathed and collared by ropes of hair with the strands interlocking to lead to the main statue. 

He frowns at this jumble of symbols, and he has no damn clue what this is all about. Sure, his school specialized a bit more in magic than others, but mostly they relied more on signs (and they seemed to attract a ton of mages for whatever fucking reason; sometimes he thinks they might be a mage school rather than a witcher school). Personally, he found himself more fond of anything that gave him distance between him and his target, like a good crossbow. He was tall but skinny, not the kind of build that lent itself well to swinging swords with any sort of power behind it and he’d never been as good as his peers with them. At least he was moderately competent with signs, igni especially. He was half-tempted to solve this problem with a lot of fire, but he wasn't sure if that would even  _ work _ .

He sighs and squats down, trying to remember what little ritual shit he’d picked up. From what he can see, this is _old_. A lot of it was only really found in the most backwater of communities, their meanings lost to time, and nothing this elaborate. He does at least recognize the straw figure as a Marzanna; the depiction of winter that got tossed into streams or lit on fire, but little else. He’s not sure what to even _do_ here. He was supposed to destroy some kind of source of magic, but nothing here looked too obviously glowing or sparkling or…whatever. He sighed, and decided to go with what worked most of the time: Playing hot/cold with his medallion.

He held it out, watching it closely. It didn't so much as twitch over most of the jumble of objects, save the ropes of hair that tied the three statues to the main one. It shuddered over those, and he eyed them. It was easy to wonder if the three sisters he’d met earlier might in some way be represented by the statues, their magic reigned in so to speak by the hair. It would explain why they hadn't been able to defy their mother on their own. He hefts the knife they’d given him, considering. It’s metal is unlike any other he’d seen, and the reflections on it’s metal surface look… strange. Distorted, almost. He doesn't like holding it, but he has a twinge of intuition that this and the hair are the key.

He takes it in hand and starts to cut. It’s sharp, sharper than it has any right to be, and the ropes may be thick but it bites through them with ease. He’s through the hair that chains the first statue when he hears something like a hiss of in drawn breath. He looks around, but sees nothing. The second one makes the torches flicker as though there's a draft, but he feels no wind. Upon cutting the third’s chains, he feels a cold hand run its way up his spine and he wheels around, but there’s nothing to be seen. He swallows, holding the knife in front of him like a ward, and that’s when all of the torches snuff out at once.

He’d never admit to anyone that he’d panicked, but that is a pretty close descriptor to what he did. 

He’s in a dark space with the howling of wind that was building to an indescribable noise barreling down the corridor towards him, and he’s only just able to down a cat potion so he doesn't break his neck in the dark as he runs as fast as his feet will carry him. He has no idea what that noise would do when it reaches him, and he doesn't want to find out. He chances a glance back to see the wind tear the altar to bits, even toppling the huge statue of the beast, all the while leaving the three statues untouched. He doesn't stick around to see if it’ll come for him next, instead hurling himself through an alcove next to the chamber. He can hear the wind at his back like the hot breath of a predator, and he’s going too fast over slippery ground to stop himself from stumbling into the hole where a trickling stream falls through.

For a few seconds, he’s sure that he’ll die an inglorious death tripping and breaking his neck on the rocks below, but he falls into an icy-cold pool instead. It’s so cold it shocks him into sanity, and he swims to the edge of the pool onto somewhat dry land. He’s no longer quite so panicked, and looks up to see the wind hasn't really followed him. It seems content to tear shit apart up there, and he can see heavy steer skulls getting tossed about like chaff. He backs away just to be on the safe side and it's about then that he realizes he just might have gone from the frying pan to the fire when he stumbles over a pile of bones.

He looks into the chamber, and it’s much bigger than the last. The floor is slick with water, and white with bones. He’s not even lucky enough for these to be animal bones, because these are definitely human femurs and rib cages tangled in the tree roots. He’s forced to cover his nose when the smell of rotting flesh hits his nose. He’s been exposed to plenty of nasty crap, and even been covered in it, too, but the sheer volume of rotting corpses here makes his stomach roil and his eyes sting. 

_ Guess I know where all the offerings wind up,  _ he thinks vaguely while trying to get his breathing under control. 

Quite a few of the corpses are dressed in armor, and to his growing horror he realizes he might have stumbled right into the place where the champions met their fate while battling metaphorical winter. Adrenalin slams into him and he looks frantically around for an enemy because he  _ knows  _ these corpses didn't rip their own throats out. All he has now is that stupid knife because he’d dropped his sword somewhere in the fall. He spares a thought as to just how mad at him for his stupidity his teachers might be, but it’s not like he’ll have to worry about that anyway if he meets the same fate.

He loses his nerve when the center pile of corpses moves, and he ducks down next to an unfortunately ripe cluster of carcasses. He watches with growing dread as the huge form sloughs off the bones and rotting flesh revealing the vast leathery wings and blunt head of the beast lurking under it all. It's massive; the wings easily spanned the chamber, and the vaguely humanoid form between them was twice his height- and he was  _ not  _ a small man. Its slick reddish skin and bony form made it look like a rotting corpse itself, though there was strength in the lean muscles.

It pulled itself upright with great effort, letting it’s head loll back to point it’s eyeless face to the ceiling to let out a long, horrible moan. He’s nearly pissing himself and he might have but it’s difficult to tell with all the fetid water soaking into everything where he’s trembling under the corpse of some poor bastard. He was sure that thing could- and  _ would  _ -tear him to shreds, and he was not nearly enough of a legendary witcher like his teachers to take that thing down. He could only hope there was an exit around here somewhere that he could escape from before it found him. 

He freezes when it moves again, observing it closely as it claws ineffectually at what looked like a thick collar around its throat, making the low, rattling moan again. He could see heavy chains attached to the collar, leading to a bolt down onto the floor. It looked like the same metal as the knife, actually, but any other observation stops when he nearly has a heart attack as it lunges for the wall. Its huge wings flap once, twice, but it doesn't get any further than that when the chains pull it up short. It jerks like a dog on a rope, brought crashing down to earth. It fights against the chains, reaching for the hole that he’d just fallen down, looking for all the world like a prisoner reaching for freedom beyond prison bars.

With the sort of clarity that usually only comes in dreams, he realizes that’s exactly what he’s looking at.

This close to it he can smell the thick reek of belladonna, henbane and mandrake over the fetid smell of rotting flesh. He has a feeling that this thing- whatever it is -has been dosed with that crap to keep it stupid and insane, and you usually only did that to sentient beings that could figure things out things like locks and chains if left to their own devices. This creature, as horrifying and dangerous as it was, was probably a thinking being trapped in a hell-hole where it was fed people and was too maddened to tell what was up and down, or how to get out of it.

He was well aware that thing would kill him. If he tried to do what so many others had done by fighting his way out, he would get torn to hell and back. It would kill him without a second thought or a trace of effort, and he’d be just one body on a pile of them. Hell, it would kill him regardless once it tired of fighting those chains and found out he was here, if only to have  _ something  _ to sink its claws into. 

He realizes there just might be one course of action that doesn't leave him gasping out his last in this charnel house, and it takes every ounce of will to force his trembling limbs to drag him carefully forward. He crawls across the floor to where he can see the links of the chain attached to a bolt rammed through a root as wide as he is tall, and stares at it for a moment wondering just how he's supposed to do this.

He pulls the knife out, and he can feel both his medallion  _ and _ the knife buzz as it approaches the chain. Some distant part of him thinks that he might have found the source after all, before he jams the blade into a slot that he can see just under the bolt. Something clicks, and he only just barely misses getting hit in the face by the hook attached to the chain as it releases. It snags the back of his armor instead, and he frantically reaches around to unhook himself. He’s not fast enough, though, and he’s yanked along like a worm on a hook. He only gets one second of an  _ ‘oh shit’  _ moment to himself before he’s getting dragged along and smacked against all manner of hard, unkind surfaces. His thoughts stutter and skitter about like his body then, pain blossoming.  _ Dislocated shoulder,  _ he thinks, and then he’s taken on probably one of the wildest rides he’s ever been on and that includes when he and a few fellow witchers got drunk and tried to ride a cockatrice. 

The beast leaps up the exit, shouldering it’s way through and dusting him with earth and broken roots, turning the small crevice into a huge gaping hole. He only gets a dizzying, spinning- he might have hit his head somewhere along the way -glimpse of the first chamber for a moment, but enough to see that it’s an absolute wreck even before the beast tears through it, though the wind is gone. He’s dragged along again as the beast lopes its way down the long corridor, bursting through the wall of roots blocking it like they’re made of paper. He was flung into the cool night air of the outside, the chaos of the clearing revealed to him as he lay gasping in the grass. The tiger he’s strapped to has paused in its frenetic rush, and he gets a brief moment to take everything in.

The air seems like it’s crackling, rent by lightning and fire and smoke. He can see the mother a few feet away, the roots of the tree writhing at her feet, stabbing out at her assailants. The three sisters are here too, launching attacks of their own at her. The eldest harassed her with dozens of crows, their beaks and claws too agile and fast to be speared by the roots, and the mother was already covered in bloody wounds, one eye gone. The middle child swung arms that-despite their slenderness-packed far more of a punch than they should, breaking gaps in her defense. The third sister directed the men who had come with him in the wagon to attack, and at first he thought she’d just mentally dominated them- Until he saw their bloody throats, and to his horror realized that she was commanding  _ corpses.  _ He’s never seen any mage command that many bodies to fight for them, or command corpses at all. They clambered over roots slick with blood and viscera from their comrades, their bloody hands grasping her griffin cloak, teeth gnashing at the promise of sinking them into her flesh.

Despite this, the woman at the center of all these ferocious attacks stood tall and terrifying. Perhaps she'll die, but she’s determined to take them all with her, and for a moment he’s sure she will. Then he’s not sure of much of anything, including what’s up or down when he’s yanked off his feet again to be sent wheeling through the air. The pain of his shoulder and the horrible vertigo makes his head  _ and  _ vision swim, and his throat and nose burns as his previous meal of foraged frog’s legs makes its way out. That done, he lolls his head about to see the beast in its full glory, huge wings beating the air as it hovered over the scene. He could see the moment ‘she-who-knows’ spotted them, and she laughed.

“Not alone!” She howled triumphantly at all of them, monster and sisters alike. “You could have never freed yourselves alone! I held you!” 

Then the beast reached for her, and she broke like a dead stick and fell. It crouched on her body, hiding it from sight, and the wings turned red.

From his prone position on the ground, he could see her blood fall and water the roots of the oak, and he felt the ground shudder and saw the tree quake. His medallion was again trembling, though that might have been him shaking from the pain and the fear at the feeling of old, old magic twisting in the air. It came and went like an in drawn breath and he could feel his consciousness gutter like a candle in that wind, and when it had gone he was left feeling weak and shaky. He’s not aware of much, but he remembers when the huge creature stands up to point it’s maw at the sky, wings spread and clawed hands extended, to let out a scream that's deep and throaty and makes the air shiver like a shock wave around it. 

It must have leapt into the air again, because the next he knows he’s sailing through the air high enough to make everything clench in terror. He’s never been fond of heights at the best of times, but he’s even less fond of them when he’s at least thirty-something feet above the ground, dealing with pain in his shoulder, a burning throat, and the kind of headache one gets after an encounter like that. He looks up to see the horror laboring drunkenly through the sky, its breaths ragged and foam at the corners of its mouth. Something is wrong with it, and he’s not sure what, but he suspects it might be coming down from the toxic mixture that it had been dosed with. He looks down again, and recognizes the swamp. He’s pretty sure that even the soft, boggy mud of this place wouldn't save his life if he fell from this height, witcher or not. He’s hoping that the monster’s landing won’t be a  _ crash _ landing.

Just as they go over a shallow pond, the  _ ‘ _ crash _ ’  _ part of that landing comes about. In one instant there's a terrifying creature above him, and the next there’s a normal man, limbs akimbo in the pose of someone who’s just passed out mid-air, and they both plummet.

Curiously enough, the only thing that went through his mind as he fell was: _oh no, not again._

The water is thick and murky, but it’s just deep enough that he doesn't smack into the bottom and break anything. Well, anything else. His shoulder joint just might be pretty damaged, but it’s hard to tell. He’s lucky to be able to use at least one arm to rabidly doggy paddle his way to shore. He takes a breather before remembering that he hadn't been the only one to fall in, and he frantically reaches for the chain and hauls.

The man on the other end is just barely caught on the collar. It was previously around a much thicker neck, so it’s just barely caught on his jaw and ears. He doesn't look like he’s breathing, and he slams his hand on the drowned man’s chest, beginning compressions. He’s not sure if the man even has a pulse, or if doing this one-handed will work, but he hasn't done this often enough- or, truthfully, _at_ _all_ -to think to check. He only remembers what to do because it had been in the basic course. It was one of the first things they learned and were drilled on, and he’d gotten one of the instructors’ rare compliments for the job he’d done on the dummy. He continued the rounds of breaths and compressions before the body under his hands jerks and sputters up a lungful of brackish water.

He eases him onto his side to help clear his lungs, and the man, with his black hair, looks about like he probably feels right now: A drowned rat. They both take a breather, or at least his patient does. He’s in too much pain to do anything other than tremble. To take his mind off it he looks over at the man next to him. He’s absolutely covered in grime, as he himself probably is, but the dark smears all over him look to be just mud not wounds or bruises. His...patient? Looks back at him, the bright blue eyes the only thing on him that doesn't have any noticeable filth. They stare at each other for a long moment, and he hopes that the guy has come around enough from the decoction that he’s just seeing a person, not a mass of tentacles or whatever nightmarish crap.

“W...w-who?” The man gasps, his voice rasping terribly.

Fair enough; they may as well start with introductions after everything they’ve gone through. He scrapes his name in the mud, and points to it.  _ Jerome. _

The man considers this; then grasps the hand that is, unfortunately, attached to the injured arm.

“D-Dettlaff.” He says, giving it a shake, and Jerome can feel his shoulder pop back in.

He gives Dettlaff a trembling smile, then passes out from the pain.


	4. No place like home

* * *

  
Barnabas-Basil Foulty was a gentleman’s gentleman if there ever was one. He’d served with distinction wherever he was appointed, and was quite well-respected in his profession. He’d seen even the most destitute of vineyards flourish, the most ill-tempered of lords tamed, and treated his employees with even-handed fairness. He was, in essence, the perfect man to call upon for taking charge of a repossessed estate that was soon to play host to a man that had probably never owned property in his life. 

He crossed his hands behind his back, and examined the estate in question with a critical eye. The main house and the attached buildings were, quite frankly, an eyesore. The previous owner had been more preoccupied with spending money on horse races than whitewash, and the neglect showed. The vines at least were still in good order though they would need some tlc. The herb garden, unfortunately, had perished except for the mint; the most tenacious of herbs, and it was currently running rampant all over the beds. It looked positively gleeful at having strangled it’s weaker brethren and he already knew that the thing was going to be the devil itself to get rid of. He settled for a disapproving look it’s way for now, and continued his survey.

The storage shed at least still had a solid frame, and might prove useful again in short order. The walls around the estate were mostly still intact, though had crumbled in places. He prodded at the mortar and was disappointed to find it powdery. Likely most of it would have to be torn out and replaced, which was bound to be quite a headache. Wandering into the cellars-which had been cleaned of the morbid business of being the temporary morgue,  _ thankfully _ -he was cheered to find it quite intact with no structural issues. It even had wine still stored in great big barrels in here, many of them still full, which he would have to test for integrity to determine if he could sell it for a decent profit. He didn't know if the...witchering business brought in a good deal of income, or if said income was steady, so he was not sure if the new landlord could be relied upon to have the coin to invest in the place. The duchess had been so kind as to provide a hefty starting sum that should last until they started producing wine and/or olive oil, provided nothing went  _ too  _ awry. He frowned, and knocked on the solid wooden support beam nearby, just in case. 

Emerging into the sunlight he squinted at the hubbub of the new staff as they rushed hither and yon, moving furniture in, airing out old rooms, and generally doing what they could to make the place presentable. Not the easiest task, to be frank. He was glad that he’d been given the means to pick his new hands, taking as many reliable, familiar people that he could find on such short notice. Many of them gave him a cursory nod or wave as they rushed past, and it made this task a little less onerous to see their good faces. Everything was a little easier when you had people at your side that you knew would have your back.

He stood at parade rest to gather his thoughts.

Conclusion: it was a wreck. Not the most horrible wreck he’d seen, but a wreck nonetheless. This place would be quite the money pit, and would strain the funds the duchess entrusted him. But Barnabas-Basil Foulty was not a third-generation majordomo for no reason, and he relished a challenge. He hmmned, and started to sort the ‘do now’ and ‘do later’ lists in his head for him to write down. The roofs of all the buildings were on the top of the list, along with-

“Excuse me my good man, may I have a word?”

He blinked out of his revery and took a look at this new arrival. A slight gentleman of later years with tattered clothes stood at his elbow. Despite the threadbare raiment he didn't look to be a vagabond, as his satchel stuffed with herbs and the clean, strongly herbal smell told him this was a man who dressed in such clothes so he wouldn't have to worry about getting them dirty. His sister-that they jokingly called the ‘black sheep’ of the family-dressed in such clothes as she had learned in the medical profession that dressing nicely only led to disappointment. Bile was difficult to get out of anything, especially silk.

He smiled warmly at the visitor. It was good to see the local herbalist was taking a proactive track in ensuring that he made himself known to new clients in his area. “Ah, see you are getting a drop on things here. I assure you we may have use of your services once we’ve settled in sir…?”

The man chuckled, extending his hand. “I see you know your doctors. Regis, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He shook the proffered hand. “My sister is one, so I know the type. Whereabouts is your practice, if I may ask?” 

Regis’ lip twitched. “Brugge, actually. I’m not actually here on business, I’m looking for one erstwhile witcher.”

“Ahh, the white wolf we are to host. I’m afraid he’s not arrived yet, he was staying at the palace last night and hasn't seemed to have torn himself away from it yet. I’m sure I can set you up to wait out of the range of this-” He waved his hand at the flurry of activity “hubbub, if you like?”

“It would be appreciated, yes.”

“Follow me sir.” He took the gentleman to the main building and showed him to the bench near the door. “I’m afraid we haven't had the chance to set up the living area inside, but I hope our veranda is enough.”

The elderly gentleman settled in with surprising grace despite the grey hair. “This will do just fine, thank you.”

“May I get you anything? Some water to wash away the dust of the road?”

“It would be appreciated, thank you.”

He nodded and got Regis set up. He was slightly tempted to stick around-the man might be able to tell him about the (in)famous white wolf-but he was far too busy to stop for gossip. He settled for treating the man like any other guest of the lord of the estate, and went back to work.

Regis watched the man go, an amused smirk over the lip of his cup. He wondered if his friend knew what he’d be coming home to; Geralt had never been fond of crowds, and now he had an army of people swarming over his estate that he’d be forced to interact with on a regular basis. He swirled the water in his cup, wishing he’d thought to bring some of his mandrake brew to share with Geralt when he came back. They could catch up at last over the familiar taste of it. 

He’d been so terrified in the first few weeks of actual consciousness, not knowing what had happened to Geralt or the hansa. He’d heard so many rumors, including that Geralt was  _ dead,  _ which felt like a punch to the gut. Dettlaff had been nearly as distraught as he was, doing his best to comfort him. To his great relief he’d then heard that the man had miraculously re-appeared, and had come back with a vengeance. He’d taken on  _ the entire wild hunt  _ (of course he did, the absolute  _ madman _ ) which had made him laugh so hard at the news that Dettlaff had given him funny looks for the rest of the day. 

After that most encouraging news his healing had sped up, willing himself to get better so he could seek out his friend and let him know he lived. Oh, how he  _ missed _ that ever-serious face; he just wished he could have come to visit him under better circumstances. And, well, when he was better. He still had a way to go before he was back at full strength, and he dabbed his forehead superstitiously. Vampires weren’t normally given to sweating, but this rushing about was taxing. He sighs, wishing that Dettlaff had been able to accompany him to help him limp his way across the continent, or better yet sent the witcher a letter to come to him, now that the man had an address to send letters  _ too.  _ He would have loved to get shitfaced on mandrake with him and the rest of their little band again, and he would have loved it even more to have Dettlaff included in it. The depressed-yes, deeply depressed, though he’d never speak of it-vampire could use a drink and the company of the bright, burning flames of his friends to lighten his burdens. It would feel so  _ good  _ to have a pack again; and to see it expand another member. 

Or, well, if Geralt accepted him and Dettlaff  _ didn't  _ go for the man’s throat when he saw him next. He sighed, thinking what a mess this was.

Speak of the devil, Geralt was making his steady way to the estate in need of...well, probably a doctor, maybe a mage. Hell, maybe a  _ priest,  _ and tried to keep himself calm while he made his way to the vineyard. God, what he wouldn't give to have Yen here, because he was definitely out of his depth with-

“Ah, welcome to Corvo Bianco!”

He pulled Roach up short, blinking down at the man.  _ The hell?  _

“I assume you are Geralt?”

“...Depends on who’s asking.” He was in no mood to be pestered, he just  _ got  _ here and he really didn't want to be getting another contract this-

“Barnabas-Basil Foulty at your service sir, I am your new majordomo.” The man bowed, and Geralt was  _ more  _ confused now, not less.

“ _ My-?” _

“I was sure the gentleman was informed that the estate came with a full staff?”

“The gentleman-” The stinking, bloodied, drowner-blood covered (because stupid, goddamn drowners could never leave well alone)  _ gentleman,  _ said slowly “...was not.”

Great, now he was speaking in third person. Well, the stress of suddenly finding yourself facing not an empty estate, but one full of people- _ gawking _ people, because no matter how well paid the staff was no one couldn't retain professionalism in the face of a witcher that looked like he’d been dragged behind his horse rather than riding it-would...do that.

He flicked a nervous eye to the bundled package on the back of his horse, and tried to remain calm.

The majordomo, perhaps sensing his predicament despite the fact that Geralt’s mutated face was impassive as ever, or perhaps because  _ anyone  _ that looked to be in such a sorry state would want to escape, nodded.

“Ah, my apologies for the shock. The duchess felt you should not have a thing to worry about with your new estate, including the arduous task of hiring staff.” He soothed. “We’ve done all we can to make this place as welcoming as possible, including readying the stable and setting up your room, should the gentlemen wish to make use of it. I am certain a tour of your new estate can wait, good sir.”

Despite himself, he relaxed a hair. Okay, maybe this...wasn't so bad. At least the majordomo wasn't gawking at him, and he knew that he had a room to retire to with an actual  _ bed _ , instead of a hay bale or a cot. “...Thanks. I think I will.”

“Splendid.” The man shifted. “Ah, shall I tell your guest to wait, or return at a later time?”

Oh, of  _ course _ he had a guest. Probably some insufferable stuffed shirt from the capitol. He growled under his breath as he dismounted and turned to roach to grab the bundle. “You can tell them to piss off. I’m a bit busy at the moment.” 

“Harsh, Geralt.” A voice behind him quipped. “I would have  _ hoped  _ Yen had taught you some manners, but alas, such an endeavor is beyond even her it seems.”

He froze.  _ No  _ **_fucking_ ** _ way. _

He turned. Slowly. Mostly because delaying the inevitable gave his brain enough time to catch up, not like it helped because it stalled when he saw  _ him. _

“... _ Regis?” _

The vampire gave him that familiar closed-lipped smile that hid his canines but not the warmth in it. “The same.”

His brain finally kicked in. “...You  _ better  _ not be a doppler.”

Regis threw back his head and laughed, and that’s what convinced him. Some doppler would have tried to persuade him, but Regis would of  _ course  _ just laugh at the ridiculous idea of a doppler trying to mimic a higher vampire. He smiles back-as much as the mutations will let him-and walks towards him to grab the man and bring him in close because  _ god  _ the last time he’d seen him…

Regis chuckles and obliges him, patting him on the back happily because he too had gone through his own short-lived phase of thinking Geralt dead, and it feels so good to have his friend back. He’d missed the stubborn, prickly witcher that he’d unofficially thought part of his ‘pack’, and from the reluctance Geralt has in letting him go the man thought the same. All the same the witcher manages to take a step back to get a good look at him.

“How is this even  _ possible? _ You-”

“I’ll explain in due course, in more suitable environs.” He gave a significant look to the crowd they’d attracted. 

Geralt nodded, and would have spoken if not for the strangled gasp behind him. He turned to see that Roach was already divested of her saddle, and also of the bundle that he’d wrapped in a white sheet in an effort to conceal what it was. Didn't seem to have done much good, because the poor server was face to...what could loosely be called a face. Geralt gave a long-suffering sigh and closed his eyes as the poor man screamed and dropped it, running off. Of course now that it was partially unwrapped everyone could see the oozing, raw flesh of the corpse, and that sent everyone into hysterics. Geralt had never seen a crowd disperse so fast.

To his credit, Basil didn't run, but he was shaken by the events, to say the least. Perhaps he should have been more...prepared, knowing that he was to host a witcher, but he’d been quite sure that they weren’t in the habit of collecting corpses. Said witcher turned to him-looking a bit surprised he hasn't run or fainted-and handed him roach’s reins. 

“Take her to the stables, would you?”

“Of...course.” He said, a little dazedly. “The...uh…”

“ _ I’ll  _ deal with it.”

“Oh  _ good _ .” He said, a little too hastily. He coughed to regain his composure. “Will you be...needing anything else?”

Geralt raised an eye, further impressed. “Sure. A bath.”

He hauled the corpse up, grimacing as he got goo all over his front, and Basil was quite sure that the man would need it. Then he was too busy focusing on the horse to keep himself from vomiting, but he managed to keep himself together.

Regis sighed. “Always with the dramatic introductions Geralt.”

“Oh shut up.” He grunted, trying not to laugh. “I need your help with this guy.”

Regis blinked at it. “Ah, not to disappoint you, but I require them to be rather more... _ lively _ , than that.”

Geralt held the corpse up and just eyed him, and bless his slow-beating heart but it nearly jumped up into his throat when it  _ twitched. _

“Lively enough for you?” Geralt drawled.

“I-I suppose it could just be, ah, just...death throes-” Oh good lord his heart would just  _ not _ settle.

Geralt him a blase look. “Huh, didn't know you were susceptible to jump-scares.”

“You know, I despise you sometimes.” he said waspishly.

“There’s the Regis I know.” Geralt crooned, then shoved the horrible thing in his arms. “C’mon, lets get somewhere out of the public eye before you have to help someone with a heart attack.”

He holds it at arm’s length. “Why ever did I ever think to find you again.”

“Because I’m very charming.”

“And humble.” Regis mutters, and hears Geralt huff a laugh.

They lay the thing down on the spare cot in the guest room. Geralt wipes off his font with a towel, not wanting to get any of this on his skin. He’s been covered in worse gunk but this thing has been marinating in god-knows-what, and he doesn't want to top this bizzare day off with poisoning. 

“Careful,” Geralt warns before Regis begins. “I found it in an alchemist lab, stuck in a vat. I don’t know what it’s been sitting in.”

“Ah, thank you for the warning.” He pulls some thick gloves from his satchel. “I can certainly smell  _ something  _ on it, though it's a bit hard to distinguish what under the smell of, well, everything else.”

He unwrapped the corpse and it twitches somewhat, though it’s not making any noise now. Bastard must have used up its strength scaring the life out of Geralt back in the lab. 

_ “ _ Well...they are emaciated, for one thing; and dehydrated beyond what any human has ever survived. They should be dead, much less trying to  _ move.”  _ He turned to the witcher. “This kind of endurance is more common to  _ my  _ kind, rather than anything human.”

“Do you think he might-”

“No, no. If I’m being quite polite, only you humans have that particularly... _ gamey _ scent.” His lip twitched in amusement. “A bit like a goat buck.”

Geralt decided to ignore the fact that humans stank like a barnyard animal to a vampire, and watched as his friend got to work. Regis examined the patient making notes on the estimated age- _ late twenties _ -sex- _ male  _ (though how he could tell, considering the dangly bits were almost non existent, was a good question)-species- _ human- _ and then started the real work. He pulled out a dozen tiny folding instruments from his satchel-Geralt was amused at just how  _ much  _ he fit in there-along with a clattering heap of unguents and herbs. He listened to him mutter away,  _ hypobaric environment but meningitis in spine likely after exposure to the outside, most likely intravenously fed parenteral nutrition until that ran out; induced coma-hmm, no scent of anesthetics for-? Strange. Perhaps lack of oxygen was enough- _

Geralt was amused by the fact he wasn't the only one that talked while working. Yen had poked fun at him for doing it once or twice, and he wished she was here to lend her considerable talents. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. “Ah, sir? Your bath is ready.”

Regis straightened and addressed Geralt, apparently done with his exam. “I hate to impose, but I believe our guest here will have to steal the bath from you my friend. Whatever he has been sitting in, it can’t be good for his recovery.”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, you can bathe him.”

Regis raised an eyebrow. “Geralt, I’m not about to let you walk off without assisting with the problem  _ you  _ laid at my feet. I fully intend to use you as my own personal assistant.”

He grimaced. “Fair enough.” 

He helped Regis lift the man into the bath, careful not to let the water splash onto their skin. The smell became stronger, the stink of blood and bile and the faintest whiff of that sickly sweet smell. Regis wrinkled his nose, opening his mouth slightly to take an inhale so the scent washed over the roof of his mouth to engage his flehmen response in an attempt to figure out what it was. It was...sweet? Cloyingly so. It made his mouth water and eyes sting, and for some reason it stirs a little tickle of unease in his hindbrain. He can’t quite figure out what it is though, as it doesn’t match the smell of hundreds of concoctions he was familiar with. He muttered under his breath in frustration.

Geralt watched him ladle water over their guest, his thoughts turning to the melancholy. “Sorry.”

Regis cocked his head. “Whatever for?”

“What happened-it was my fault. Never got a chance to apologize.”

Regis smiled warmly, letting his teeth show because he was in trustworthy company. “No need, Geralt. Bygones. I did not have to join you on that expedition. No one twisted my arm.”

Geralt felt like a heavy weight was lifted and he smiled back, somewhat wryly. “Well, I’m also sorry for this. You only just got here and already you’re getting press-ganged into helping me with some weird shit.”

Regis chuckled. “Just as I’d resigned myself to a quiet life.”

“Speaking of, what  _ have  _ you been doing all these years?”

“Being dead, mostly.” He motioned Geralt to help him lift their patient, and they made their way back to the cot. “I was only just conscious a few months ago. Even now I’m still recovering.”

Geralt frowned, the guilt returning. “I didn’t mean to  _ leave _ you there; to recover on your own.”

“You couldn't have known that it was possible for me to recover.” Regis waved away the apology. “And I might not have, if I was alone.”

Geralt looked up at him sharply. “Regis, I know you’re charming, but how the hell did you convince someone to help you when you were a smear?”

“I didn’t. Dettlaff volunteered.” 

“ _ Who _ ?”

“Ah…” He paused in the middle of using some terrifying bent metal contraption with a bladder at the end, clearing his patient’s trachea and lungs of the fluid. The horrible sucking noises made his insides shudder. “...You may know him better as ‘the beast of Beauclair’.”

Geralt stared at him for a full minute, before slowly putting a hand over his face.

“...why am I not surprised.” He muttered, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

They were both quiet for a moment, the only noise the horrible slurping of the contraption that made him twitch. Thankfully he only kept that up for a few minutes, and Geralt looked back at him when he was sure he was done.

“So,” He said slowly, “I killed the guy that brought you back to life.”

“In essence, yes. Though really, only a higher vampire can  _ permanently  _ kill a higher vampire. He’ll be back.”

“I was afraid of that.” He muttered, then gave Regis a wary look. “Are you...angry I killed the man that, well, saved your life?”

“No.” Regis said, perfectly even, then switched the horrid contraption to the  _ other  _ end of his patient. Geralt flicked his eyes towards the ceiling.

_ I wonder if he’s doing this on purpose,  _ he thought, trying not to twitch as the sucking noises continued. To distract himself “How did you become friends with a serial killer?”

Regis pursed his lips, focused on his task. To Geralt’s relief, he seems to be done with this part of the procedure. He tossed it into a bucket of hot water with ashes in it that he’d requested earlier. Geralt didn't know enough about doctoring to know why you added ashes to water, but he knows it cleaned things so he doesn't question it.

“Despite evidence to the contrary, Dettlaff is not some decadent shit that kills for sport or to assuage a dryness of throat or dullness of mood.” He said as he applied limewater to the worst wounds to disinfect them, then a tincture of woad, yarrow, and calendula. For extra measure a nose-smarting sprinkle of moonshine on top, and then neatly sutured them. There were a lot of wounds near the veins of the arms, and on the back. Regis was glad he’d brought plenty of catgut with him.

“He attacked me because he thought I was his target Regis.” He growled reproachfully. “Whatever type he is he still murdered three people, and almost a fourth.”

“There is most assuredly a reason behind the killings Geralt.” Regis sighs, sounding...actually depressed. He chances a look at the vampire’s face, and it’s tense and worn. There's more shadows under his friend’s eyes than he remembers, and he’s not sure it's from the stress of regenerating from a puddle. 

He toned it back slightly. “So, in your opinion, what are his reasons?”

“Precisely what I wish to find out. And then I will convince him of the error of his ways.” 

Cleaning and suturing done he took out honey, garlic, blue mold, mallow, and comfrey to start the arduous task of poultices for the  _ entirety  _ of his patient’s body. He would likely not have enough, but he’s sure Geralt would help gather more. The lack of skin was going to be an issue, but he hoped that this would ward off infection enough to allow his patient to focus his energy on regrowing what he’d lost. He walked to the door and called the majordomo back. To the man’s relief he didn't request his aid directly dealing with the body, but with bandages.

“Make sure you boil them in water with ashes my good man.”

“Of course sir. My sister roped me into just that very thing many times, I know the procedure.”

Regis chuckled and the man hurried off. Instructions given he returned to the conversation at hand. “Despite appearances to the contrary, you two are quite alike. You’ve both noble hearts yet you both you both are wont to perform ignoble deeds-when circumstances force you to, of course.”

Geralt almost said something, but then that night filtered back.

_ They’ll kill her- _

“I’m sorry?”

Regis was giving him a funny look. He must have spoken out loud.

“Dettlaff. It’s what he said. Well, just before the ducal guard blew him off a cliff.”

Regis stared at him, looking astonished. He was tempted to savor it, but not the time nor place.

“You wouldn't happen to know who this ‘her’ of his could be, would you?”

Regis pauses, not sure what to even say. He knows one women that Dettlaff would be willing to kill for, and he hopes against hope that it’s not her because the man was never rational at the best of times but if  _ she’s _ involved-

Before he can say anything at all his patient moans and thrashes weakly. Regis turns to their patient, his forehead creased with worry. “I...Geralt, I  _ must  _ admit that this is well beyond my considerable repository of knowledge. This person shouldn't be  _ alive,  _ much less moving and complaining about it.”

“Can’t blame them. Anything you can do for the pain?”

“I’ll make an attempt, but first they desperately need to be rehydrated. Lack of skin isn't exactly conducive to keeping one’s tissue fluids and serum on the inside.” He sighed. “How on  _ earth  _ do you keep finding such perplexing and tantalizing enigmas, my friend?”

“Occupational hazard.” 

Regis’ lip twitched. “Granted. But what made you decide to bring them here?”

Geralt looked at him askance. “I couldn't just  _ leave  _ him there.”

“Bleeding heart.” He scoffed fondly, smiling. “But, thanks to your charity and happenstance they’ll get the best care I’m capable of. First, some saline solution I think.”

Regis leaves then to rope Basil into fixing up whatever saline solution was, and Geralt takes the opportunity to take a breather. His day has been nonstop chaos ever since he set out, and he takes the opportunity to take off a few of the heavier, more cumbersome bits of armor. He sorts through his pockets too, because he always seemed to accumulate so much random crap. He puts the alchemist's notes out on the nightstand for Regis to sort through as he might find something useful in them, along with the vial he’d picked up. 

The third pocket is especially heavy, and he has to shake it to get it to empty. Instead of some potions or scraps of paper, a hand falls out.

He blinked at it, realizing that he’d actually forgotten that he’d had this gruesome thing. It’s  _ still  _ twitching like it’s alive, though the skin is starting to darken around the nail bed and the rest is taking on a blue-grey hue. He stares at it contemplatively, wondering just what to do with it now that it’s owner was at the bottom of a lake. It had taken Regis some eighty years to regenerate from being dismembered and buried alive, and he’s not sure how long it will take for this guy to recover from being stabbed, lit on fire, falling down a cliff, and drowning. Compared to Regis his wounds like burns and shattered bones were far less severe than being quartered and having to grow back from a head alone, so it was unlikely he’d have damn near a century to put this off. Despite the murderer being dead for now, this job wasn't done. 

_ They’ll kill her- _

Maybe the pain and fear made him babble some nonsense, but despite being on fire and blinded Dettlaff had focused on that alone: pleading for the life of someone that he knew. Whoever she was, she must have been damned important  _ and  _ she was going to be killed. Whatever ambivalent feeling he had about a serial killer, someone might be next on the chopping block and he can’t in good conscience just leave them to die. He let out a long, put-upon sigh and put his head into his hands. What he wouldn't give to just have a moment of peace to enjoy his estate and his friend being  _ alive.  _ God, it’s a miracle that he is whole and here, thanks to the man that he’d blasted off a cliff. And, now that he thought about it, he realized he’s indebted to the guy he’d ‘killed’ for bringing him back.

_ This is a mess.  _ Geralt thought, rubbing his temples.

He’s shaken out of his thoughts by Regis returning. He sets up a large metal funnel with a huge needle on the end, very carefully inserting it into one of the veins on their patient’s arm, then filled the reservoir with something that looked like slightly tinted water that he could only assume was the saline. He withdraws and eyes his work critically, apparently deep in thought. Geralt lets him be, patiently waiting for him to come around and say what was on his mind. Regis could never shut up even if his life depended on it, so he’d say it eventually. He hadn’t come around to it yet when he spotted the hand. The doctor stares at it, flabbergasted.

“Wherever did you get that?”

“Off one of the beast’s victims, found by a bend in the river. Body was chopped into pieces. Three of the pieces were hands.” He nodded towards it. “Hand with the ring seemned the odd one out.”

Regis picked it up to inspect it and then, to Geralt’s discomfort,  _ sniffed  _ it. Regis’ head then went slowly back, rolling his head from side to side like he was trying to work out a crick in his neck before finally shaking himself out of...whatever visceral experience he’d just had, his gaze dropped to the hand once again. 

Geralt can’t resist.

“...Do you and that hand need a moment?”

Regis glares at him. “Oh,  _ that’s _ mature.”

Geralt gives him a shit-eating grin. “I’ll give you some oil and five minutes of privacy.”

The vampire rolls his eyes. “ _ Please  _ Geralt. I’m not some teen. I’d need at least ten.”

Geralt snorts a surprised laugh, and Regis huffs along with him. It takes a little bit, because whether you’re a four hundred year old vampire or a grizzled near century old witcher, there's a part of the male psyche that never grows up or gets tired of the kind of jokes that started being told about when you hit puberty. After a few minutes they’ve returned to relative sobriety, and Regis returns his attention to the hand.

“It’s Dettlaff’s hand, without a doubt. We could...hm.” He shook his head. “Well, I doubt you want to go through this process now that the owner is at the bottom of a lake.”

“What process?”

“I was going to suggest brewing a batch of resonance, something that would allow you a brief glimpse into Dettlaff’s life to have you see and understand him as I do; though I doubt it will be of much point trying to prove an executed man’s innocence.”

“Ring’s pretty intriguing. Made of no metal I’ve ever seen. And the ornamentation…” Geralt said, skipping right over the ‘executed’ bit.

“It comes from our home, where we lived before the conjunction of Spheres. It’s actually mine. I received it from a dear old friend.” Regis inspected it. “You might call him a...humanist. He saw us, vampires, as guests here, guests who owe their hosts, meaning you humans and the Elder Races, respect.”

He almost says a snappy comment about how nice of the guy to not treat them like cattle for once, but he’s distracted by Regis slipping the ring on his own hand. Maybe it’s for safekeeping, but after that... _ thing  _ with the hand Geralt can’t help but seeing it in an entirely different context. He tries not to think about it. 

“It is perhaps the most valuable thing I have, at least in terms of sentimentality. I gave it to Dettlaff to show my gratitude for his assistance with my regeneration, though it’s a paltry trinket compared to such a gesture of generosity. And I also gave it to him to hopefully impress upon him the ideals that my mentor strove for. Though he’s found exceptions to the rule on some rare occasions, Dettlaff is...not exactly fond of humanity.” At Geralt’s raised eyebrow, he waved away his concerns. “Don’t worry, I’m working on him. My hope is that he will, one day, view your kind-on the  _ whole _ , not just select individuals-as people in their own right, with dreams, aspirations, flaws and merits, rather than just an irritating background noise. This worldview is what my mentor taught me, and one I wish to pass on to him in the hopes that it would have just as much of a deep impact it had on myself. 

I owe my mentor a great deal, as that lesson is what saved me from myself. After my regeneration-well, the first one-he took me under his wing and helped me conquer my addiction. I admit, even regenerating underground without a drop passing my lips didn't cut me from my addiction completely. The chemical dependency was gone-obviously-but mentally...well.”

The doctor coughs, probably realizing he’d admitted more than he’d wanted to. Regis didn't like to talk about his younger years, and it’s easy to guess why. When Geralt had been younger, he’d almost given himself the most pretentious name ever if not for Vesemir cutting him off at the pass, along with a bunch of other stupid shit during his teen years. He’s quite sure everyone wanted to waterboard their teenaged self for the sheer cringy stupidity, so he can imagine how bad that would be if that adolescent ignorance was combined with the vampire equivalent of fisstech. Plus, you didn't obtain that drug the usual way by cooking it in a dented tin pot over a shaky fire while scratching yourself because of the withdrawal bugs, oh no. Obtaining it meant that you were directly responsible for the death and anguish of a  _ lot  _ of people. This horrible combination would make anyone ashamed to an even more painful degree than Geralt could ever be over his own teenage faux pas. 

Regis fidgets self-consciously. “It took quite a lot to overcome the more mental side of things. I’d been using the addiction as, well, essentially a crutch. I was originally quite shy-”

“You? Shy? I think that succubus would say otherwise.” Geralt said, grinning. 

He chuckled. “Yes, as hard as it is to believe, I was the quintessential bookworm. Cloistered in my crypt, reading any and all books that I could get my hands on. Dettlaff was the only one that I felt comfortable allowing into my sanctuary, if only because we shared a similar interest in books. I in anatomy and alchemy, and he in mathematics.”

“ _ Math?” _

“Don’t laugh. ‘Beast’ he may be called, but he loves his numbers. They were toys to him, games. Our respective interests were incomprehensible to the other, so we didn't talk much, but I suppose we found a companionship in our respective silence while we enjoyed our hobbies.” He paused. “I...perhaps didn't notice as much as I should have at the time, but I think I may have been his only friend. He was more...bestial?-not quite the term I’m reaching for, but I really don’t have a better one-than the others. He simply couldn’t understand more subtle social conventions. He’s  _ naive,  _ in a way; doesn't understand what it means to lie, to deceive. You can imagine how much that affected his ability to interact with the other young vampires of our crèche.”

“Saying he’s maladjusted?”

“Ah...as unflattering as the term is, yes.” He sighed. “We were friends, of a sort, but not for long, I'm ashamed to say. I found that when I partook of blood my shyness fell away. I was, in a word, popular. Our paths soon diverged when I started to partake in youthful capers. Blood-guzzling contests, that sort of thing - ‘lets turn into bats and terrify the ladies’. Dettlaff thought it all foolish. He was right, of course...though I only came to understand him later.”

Geralt was starting to wonder just where the hell this story was even going, but he let the vampire ramble. He’d learned that letting the man talk long enough he’d get to the point eventually; he just wouldn't be able to stop himself. Besides, hearing about Regis’ exploits as a young punk was interesting to say the least.

He grimaced. “I dearly wish I had listened to him, and understood what he was trying to do in his hesitant way. He was trying to save me from myself, and in the way where hindsight is 20/20, I understand that he was losing his one friend to addiction, and he could do nothing to stop it. I think this factored into his decision to help me with regeneration years later; an opportunity to assist me in a way that he  _ could. _ ”

He runs a fingertip along the design on the ring on his finger. “I owe him a great deal for that. Among others.” He said softly. 

Geralt closed his eyes slowly, finally seeing where this was going.  _ Oh great, another inner monologue growing out of a personal dilemma just because the pedantic bastard can’t just ask the damn question. _

“I, ah-” From the hesitance in Regis’ voice, he can guess that he’s finally coming to the point of this story. “Hypothetically, if you were to incapacitate a blood brother of mine for...legal reasons, and he was currently in a place where you were able to locate him but I could not, would you, in such a case-“   
  


“Yes.”   
  


“What?”   
  


“I’ll fish your crazy friend from the bloody lake, already.”   
  


“I...that’s...”   
  


“Besides, he has information I want.”   
  


“So, just like-“

  
“Tell the majordomo I’ve gone fishing, and not to wait up.”

  
  



	5. Chef Special

* * *

_ Its peaceful here. _

_ Small schools of fish flit above him like flocks of sparrows, darting from one bunch of weeds from another until they settle in around him. They inspect him curiously, winking like thrown silver coins in the dim, dim light down here at the bottom. They start to peck away at him, the tiny mouths moving over his exposed, ruined flesh. He dimly wonders how long it will take for them to work their way to bone, until they can roost in his ribcage and chew away at his heart, like the pressing  _ **_feeling_ ** _ currently is. It gnaws, growling insistently that there's something that he needs to be doing, a name that keeps ringing just at the edge of hearing- _

_ R- _

_ Rh-? _

“Rhena?”

“Mmm?” She looks up at him, pulled out of her thoughts. 

She’d been going over her missives from her informants. She was at her desk, lit by the cool half-light from the moon coming through the window and the warm lamplight. It was a study in contrasts and his hand itches, wishing for his easel, but he ignores the impulse. They have been coming more often of late, and perhaps someday he will gather the courage to ask her to sit for a portrait. He doubts she would mind, but he also doubts he’d be able to conceal his growing curiosity in her as he sketches. She's a dangerous and comely creature, as much a study in contrast in personality as she was in looks. The men of the hansa fear and love her, for they know she’s heavy with the hand that feeds. He knows this after working with her for three months, chasing leads and ghosts, occasionally doing a job for her when he needs the coin. Being a vampire lends well to the kind of intrigue she has her hand in, even if he doesn't have the head for it he’s perfectly able to steal into secret spaces and take little notes to drop at her feet. It reminds him of good times with his friend on the weirder cases that had gotten strange and twisting, leading to clues and finally the true culprit. He liked accompanying him as they solved mysteries, even if the motivations and machinations of human intrigue made little sense to him. 

He forces himself out of his ruminations. “I went to the griffin school of witchers.” 

She brightened. “You found it? I was wondering if the info was correct…”

“I did. It was well hidden, but with your help I found it.” 

“Any luck?”

He swallowed. “It was destroyed. Buried under an avalanche.”

She sighed softly. “Well, it was worth a try. If you could lead some of my men to the place, they could take a more thorough look for leads.”

“Thank you.” He said softly. He appreciated all her efforts, because even though he knew that technically she was doing this for money he also had the feeling that her level of attention to the case went above and beyond what mere coin bought.

She waved away his thanks, smiling lightly. “It’s nothing. I’m rather enjoying this; I’d always had a little bit of a fascination with witchers. They’re like something out of an old legend, and I’m rather fond of fairy tales.”

He cocked his head, amused. “Really? The ruthless hansa leader Rhena has a love of Red Riding hood, Jack and the beanstalk, and all of mother goose’s menagerie?”

“I’m allowed my sentiments.” She sniffed, striking a dignified pose. 

He chuckled, delighted. “If anything, it adds to your charm.”

She batted her lashes at him. “Flatterer. Ah! Speaking of fairy tales-”

She opened a drawer in the desk, and pulled out a music box. A very  _ familiar  _ music box and his eyes widened. She handed it to him and he cradled it with reverence. It had been more than a century but it was still remarkably intact considering the years; the finish was gone and the design on the front faded past an unrecognizable smudge, but he  _ knew _ this box. When he had been a tinkerer first starting his career making wondrous toys and wind-up automatons  _ this  _ had been one of his very first projects. It felt as fragile as glass, the ages having not been kind, but it’s so good to see at least one surviving thing from his happiest years. 

“Wonderful.” He breathed. “Where on earth did you-?”

“It was in a private collection.” She said, leaving  _ how  _ she’d acquired it out. “What did the front used to look like?”

“I painted a heraldic design into it; commissioned by a customer.” He sighed, picking at the ruined hinge. “This was before I had started with inlay, of course. I hadn’t quite mastered it yet at the time. It’s a pity it’s missing; even as amateur projects go, I was quite proud of the picture.”

A grin spread across her face. “Knew it.”

“Knew...what, specifically?”

“That  _ you're _ the tinkerer of Nazair.” 

He frowns. “I’m... _ a _ tinkerer, from what was to  _ become  _ Nazair later, yes.”

She had a smug look on her face, like she knew something he didn't. “Here, let me show you something.”

This time she pulled out a book. It was dusty and worn, obviously old but-from the date-at least half the age of the music box. She flipped through the pages, going past an illustration of the music box as it had been (though some details were off, he assumed it was an illustration based on a description). He’s intrigued to see most of the pictures were of his other, more famous creations, like the Faberge eggs he’d made as a king’s gift to his daughters.

Her finger landed on the title of this chapter: ‘The Tinkerer: The elusive man that inspired the beloved ballet.’

He blinked. “...There was a play? Inspired by...but I never courted the spotlight, I-”

He stopped. “Ah. I think I...hmm.”

Rhena was watching him with bated breath, more intrigued than he’d ever seen her. “So...you are him aren't you? ‘Uncle’ Drosselmeyer.”

He coughed. “An alias, yes. I preferred to be left alone. When you are a vampire it is best to escape notice, lest someone question why you don’t age.”

To his surprise, she looks absolutely delighted. For the first time, her usual smugly calculating expression is nowhere to be seen, instead replaced by a giddy, almost  _ girlish  _ sort of excitement. “I was  _ right!  _ Hah, I thought that the book was just making wild leaps of logic, but that character was a real person! When you talked about what you used to do for a living, I started to wonder, and I researched it. But you confirming what the box front was...well, it’s like an early birthday.”

Dettlaff watches her with a sense of wonderment growing in his breast. Rhena is always calm, collected. But right now she is happier than he has ever seen her, with no trace of the ever-present cynicism. In this moment she is not the iron-fisted hansa leader; she is instead light and innocent and lovely, and that's when he can feel the detached curiosity he’d previously had in her shift into something rather more emotional. 

She grinned widely at him as she pulled out another book, titled ‘The Nutcracker’. “This was one of my favorite plays growing up. I’d sneak into the theater as often as it was being played to see it.”

It’s a beautifully illustrated book, gold-gilded with watercolor illustrations. Having been a toy maker and therefore having plenty of exposure to mortal children (he’d never been much for adults, but children he can understand) he can see why it would charm a much younger Rhena. It’s just the sort of thing most young girls would like, complete with a handsome prince and a terrible rat. It’s strange to look at the portrayal of himself as the mysterious and whimsical tinkerer, but he supposes it's a more flattering portrayal of him than the reality where he’d be uncomfortable to the point of pain in a room with more than two strangers in it. As much as he loved creating wind-up toys and music boxes, it had the uncomfortable necessity of having to deal with mortals to get supplies and selling his creations to have to coin to buy them. He’d even gone so far as to rope his friend into being his intermediary in order to survive the ordeal. So far, Rhena was the only human that he’d had prolonged contact with.

She stood at his shoulder and looked down at the book. “Must be strange, seeing yourself as a character in a play.”

“A bit.” He tapped the point of his index finger on the painted face of Drosselmeyer. 

“He looks nothing like you, either. Did you  _ really  _ wear an eyepatch back then?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “In a way. The one time I was forced to make a public appearance was at a masquerade. Jerome bought me the mask.  _ He _ thought it was funny.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Is there a story behind that?”

“Indeed.” He paused, twin feelings of nervousness and eagerness mixing in his chest. “I...could tell you about it, if you like?”

She smiled gently at him, and this was the first smile he’d seen reach her eyes. “I’d love that.”

_ His aquatic attendants scatter suddenly, darting for the safety of the weed beds. Something larger looms in the gloom, and he wonders if it's real or a hallucination in his dream state; because there is no reason Jerome should be here, slit eyes hovering over him, their cat-like gleam accusing in the dark. The cold grip of dead fingers winds into his hair, and pulls him up- _

_ -or is it down, down into the dark,  _

_ -The dark hellspace full of rot and corpses and blood, _

_ -hands going where they shouldn't, metal on his neck _

_ -The dark- _

* * *

This day just wasn't going to end. 

He was to the point where he was so tired that he was starting to shake. The cold water hasn't helped either, and right now all he wanted to do was sink into a hot bath and never come out. It had taken him  _ hours  _ to find one corpse. The _ right _ one that is; it disturbed him that he’d found three others in his search and Toussaint is starting to look less and less like the fairyland that it seemed on the surface. It’s disheartening somehow, even if his honed cynicism is grimly satisfied to find proof that even in this gilded land people are people. 

He towels himself off, glad there's no one to see him in just his underwear-while he’d dived in full gear before, it's not something he liked to do-and looked at the man he’d fished out of the lake. He...well, he looks like a corpse should look. Geralt’s not sure if he should even try to clear the man’s lungs of water; granted Dettlaff would heal from any horrible brain damage that he’d suffered from being deprived of oxygen, so he was sure that getting the miserable bloodsucker to breathe again could wait. Besides, he didn't want the guy any closer to consciousness without access to painkillers with skin like that. He looked horrible, the skin blackened and blistered, clothes shredded, ribcage flattened from the impact. And, horrifyingly enough, the fish had tried to make a meal of him. Maybe having the charred skin nibbled off would help the new skin to grow, but he was far from being a doctor. 

He had to wonder why he hadn't healed already, but he figured that he wasn't all that different from other vamps in that if they took enough damage all at once or continuously took damage their healing process slowed by a  _ lot.  _ It’s like they burned through a reserve of some sort, and needed to either take in some kind of food or-preferably-blood. He eyed the vampire in front of him, hoping he wouldn't pull a jump scare in an attempt to drain him, but from the looks of those ribs he probably had a broken spine. He wasn't going to be doing much of anything for a while. Dettlaff’s lucky that he didn't smash his brain on the rocks, but everything from neck to hips was pulverized. At this point, the ruined coat was acting like the casing on a sausage. He’d brought a tarp and a little wagon just in case, and he’s glad he did because he was  _ not  _ going to be able to get him to ride on the back of the horse. Not without dropping bits of him on the way, and that would just attract too much attention to have a spleen drop out onto the roadway.

Roach shifted, not appreciating the wagon one bit. He’d trained her to occasionally pull a wagon for when he needed to transport larger monster corpses to alchemists or mages that wanted the whole thing for whatever research reasons, but she didn't like it. He patted her shoulder soothingly, then as carefully as possible loaded Dettlaff into the cart. It was easier with him on a tarp but he still had to go slowly so as not to jostle him. He jumped a little when one of his hands twitched, but that was the only sign of life. He was less lively than the other corpse, and that’s saying something. Even so he gave him a stern look.

“Don’t you dare eat me.” He muttered.

No response. Less lively indeed.

Geralt sighed and took Roach’s reins in hand, starting the long walk back to Corvo Bianco-to  _ home.  _ It was a very strange thing, having a home to go to. He thinks of what that entails and treats himself to the pleasant visage of Yen reclining under an olive tree, enjoying one of her many, many tomes, watching him with that knowing smile on her face. Gods, he hoped she came up soon, this mess would be so much better with Yen to say her sarcastic little quips and wordplay. And, if he wasn't in public and wearing such a restrictive cup, maybe the daydreaming would get a bit more explicit. 

_ Later,  _ he thinks, smiling to himself.

It takes a while, but he’s able to drag this burnt piece of vampire back to the doctor. Regis frowns, looking down at his newest patient. Dettlaff is...well, he’d been put through the wringer, that’s for sure. The doctor is a bit more aware of the dangers that humans posed to vampires than most, having that point driven home twice (literally in the first one; stakes were rather unkind) but it still surprised him just how bad Dettlaff was. 

“Well,” He said slowly. “You are nothing if not efficient.”

Geralt gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

He sighed and shook his head. “It’s alright Geralt; in a fight between you I would vastly prefer you come out on top. He can heal, whereas death is rather more permanent for you.”

Still, Geralt couldn't help noticing the care he displayed towards his friend, wincing as if he felt his pain when cutting him out of his clothes. Regis’ forehead creased with worry as they both got a good look at his chest. There were large patches of black bruises, and in spots the ribs had punctured the skin. His lungs were probably shredded, so Geralt is glad he didn't try expelling water from them.

“Why isn't he healing?” Geralt asked. “I’ve seen you shrug off arrows and sword wounds in seconds.”

“Well, past a certain point our healing slows down massively.” He started to gently peel off the charred skin so that new could grow in its place. “Also, I am quite resilient even for a higher vampire. Not only can I take quite a beating, I’m immune to non-magical fire, and silver is naught but a pretty metal to me, though it comes with certain...weaknesses as the trade-off.”

“Such as?”

“Ahh...well, I feel the effects of blood more strongly. And withdrawal is an absolute  _ nightmare. _ ” He grimaced. “Though part of my dependence was psychological, I’m sure.”

“How long do you think it’ll take for him to recover?”

“Ahh...at least a month, depending. He’s too damaged for him to ingest some of my blood, though I  _ could  _ try a transfusion. Unfortunately, I’m still healing myself and the amount I could offer is...well, I can’t afford to be passed out on the floor when I’ve another patient to tend to.”

While he’s not going to say it out loud, he kind of agrees with Regis. His friend looks like he’s aged at least twenty years, and he looks haggard and just...unwell. Like the doctor was permanently recovering from a night of hard drinking. Geralt hopes he’ll eventually start looking better, though he’s honestly not sure if it is as simple as eating regular food and sleep, or if that would require more blood from the other vampire. If it wasn't so dangerous to risk re-addiction he’d offer his blood to Regis in the hope it would help. Maybe it’d help Dettlaff though; as damaged as he was he’d be too weak to stagger about drunkenly.

“What about mine?” Geralt said. “I mean, it’s obviously not as good as vampire blood, but blood helped you heal didn't it?”

Regis blinked, obviously taken aback. “You would-I, mean, that’s quite the gesture of generosity.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Really? I mean, it’s only fair since I kicked his ass so bad.”

Regis chuckled. “I suppose it  _ is  _ fair, true, but allow me to explain: willingly offering your blood to help him heal is to form a bond with him, as he did with me. Obviously, it won’t have the telepathic bond that he formed with me-unless your witcher trials include  _ true  _ higher vampire mutations-and he would be obligated to view you as pack.”

“ ‘Pack’?” Geralt looked amused. “Honestly viewed you guys as more like cats, not dogs.”

“As amusing as your observations are, please be serious.” Regis chided him. “I would like to make sure you understand the ramifications. We don't often do this to others even of our  _ own _ kind because of what is implied in it. You would be accepting him as family, as precious to you as your own daughter.”

Geralt’s eyes widened. “It’s that big of a deal?”

“Very.”

He paused. “...Does this mean he, ah,  _ adopted  _ you then? When he helped you recover?”

“In essence, yes.” It was his turn to pause. “And what’s more, he did it for a near stranger. We knew each other only glancingly when we were adolescents.”

Geralt grimaced. “Gods, that just makes me feel even worse. I...I basically lit your _ brother _ on fire.”

“Geralt, we’ve established that I’ve forgiven you for it.”

“ _ He  _ hasn't.” 

“Ah, point.” He looked at Dettlaff. “...I mean, doing this would surely ingratiate you to him, but I  _ really _ doubt you wish to form a bond of fealty with someone you hardly know.”

“Not sure he’d like it if it was coming from someone who lit him on fire either, no matter how strong that kind of thing is supposed to be. I mean, I’d kinda be  _ forcing  _ him to like me.”

“Also an excellent point, my friend. Let me bring you to a third: due to the fact that human blood is only  _ slightly _ like vampire blood, it’s terribly inefficient at healing damage and would require quite a lot. I imagine you want to be passed out even less than I. Also, it would cost him a good deal of energy for his body to convert it into something he could use.”

“Dammit.” He growled, frustrated. “We don’t _have_ a month to wait for him to wake back up. _”_

Regis looked confused. “I mean, he may recover consciousness soon but-”

“ _ How  _ soon?”

“I...perhaps a few weeks? Your impatience for him to recover warms my heart, but would you mind informing what the rush is all about?”

Geralt took in a fortifying breath. “Regis, if you’re asking me ‘where’s the fire’-” he pointed at the charred vampire “- _ he  _ was the one talking about some women when he was being burned like a piece of bacon when Dandelion's doing the cooking. If ignoring flames making you extra crispy to say that doesn't give you a sense of urgency-”

“ _ You have made your point _ ,  **Geralt** , and you can stop referring to my friend as a sample of our favorite bard’s cooking skills-or lack thereof-at  _ any _ time.” He said, rubbing at his temples.

“I need to find out who she is, why she’s in danger, and  _ fast _ . The whole  _ point _ of dragging him out of the lake was to get that from the horse’s mouth!” Geralt was about to start rubbing at his temples too. “I don’t have days, Regis.”

Regis put a hand to his chin, thinking hard. 

“I...perhaps the resonance could help with this.” He finally said.

Geralt gave him a doubting look. “I don’t need to understand the man, or have you prove his innocence Regis. I’m  _ already  _ willing to help him if it’ll save some innocent girl’s life.”

“Heartening as your willingness is, this potion would show you the most recent, most  _ potent _ memory that he’s had. It may help supply you with some clues. For that, I will need some ingredients and my equipment.” He sighed heavily. “If I’d know what turn my day would be taking, I would have just brought everything here instead of leaving it at Mère-Lachaiselongue.”

“...Isn't that a cemetery?”

“Yes.”

“... _ Seriously _ Regis? Can you get any more cliche?”

Regis smirked. “Nothing comes to mind.”

“Whatever. I’ll go get your crap. It better  _ not  _ be more than a cartful.” He sighed heavily, getting up and already feeling his sore muscles protest.  _ When is this day going to end? _

Regis gave him a sympathetic look. “Would it help if I asked your majordomo to have a bath and a meal ready for your return?”

“Minutely.” 

“Would it further help to know that I brought some of my mandrake moonshine?”

Geralt’s eyes lit up. “You  _ did?” _

“Of course, my friend. It would be terribly remiss of me to finally reunite with you without it to celebrate the occasion.”

“Fuck, why didn't you just mention that in the _ first  _ place? I’ll get back quick enough so it’s still crypt-cold and we can get toasted.” Geralt shrugged on his gear again. “Just the thing to end this mess of a day on a high note.”

Regis chuckled. “If this goads you along so well I really should bribe you with it more often.”

“Yeah, it’d work too. See you when I’ve got the equipment then.”

“And I shall get to work as well.” 

He followed him out the door to enlist the help of Basil once more. He was the closest thing he had to a general assistant, and he’s glad he has at least one pair of somewhat capable hands. He’s going to have both of his own full with  _ two  _ patients in such a sorry state. 

He’s surprised to find the man already putting an assortment of herbs out. “I surmised the gentleman may have some use for these. I’m no doctor of course, but I have some first aid knowledge at least. My sister was of the opinion that everyone should know the basics.”

“I share her sentiments.” He said approvingly. “Might you have access to a herbalist? I may need some more...esoteric ingredients than these; things not usually found out in the fields.”

“Not close by, but I will inquire. Some of my hands may know of one.” He indicated a bucket near the table. “More bandages for you sir.”

“You are a consummate professional, Basil. You’ve taken care of my needs before I even asked.” 

“I do try sir. Anything else?”

“Mmm, some more warm saline solution. Oh, and perhaps a bath and food for the... _ lord,”  _ Regis smirked to himself “Of the estate when he returns. I imagine he’ll be in need of it after such an eventful day.”

“Of course sir. I will have some food for yourself as well; I know well that doctors always forget to eat on the job.” 

He bustled off, leaving an amused vampire in his wake. Geralt somehow always managed to attract the most interesting company; following him around to see who he’d pick up next was half the fun of being friends with the man. Now he had a majordomo under his employ that was unfazed as untrained humans went that was determined to help with whatever bizarre curveball that landed under his nose. He hoped the rest of the staff was half as pleasant. Geralt had better not manage to burn the place down or have it taken away from him for starting another war; he was already thinking of taking advantage of this place to take vacations away from his practice in Brugge. 

He sets to work with making poultices-the man had even brought him a mortar and pestle, bless him-falling into the familiar rhythm immediately. Normally their kind wouldn't have any need for such as they healed so quickly, but poor Dettlaff was going to take a while to recover from the sheer  _ amount  _ of damage he’d suffered. It was quite the display of what destructive powers just ordinary humans had towards even higher vampires when sufficiently organized and motivated. Nearly the entirety of the ducal guard had piled on, and normally that wouldn't have mattered, but these ones had-in the space of a few hours-equipped themselves appropriately, set an ambush, and then sprung it so viciously and quickly as to not allow Dettlaff to tear through them like a whirling dervish of teeth and claws. He was quite a strong and capable vampire, but he’d been outnumbered and outwitted, and suffered the consequences. He wasn't the first to endure such a fate at the hands of sufficiently motivated humans.

In the early days of their kind making a way in this world, they’d run amuck like a fox among the chickens. However, in the span of a century-a blink of an eye to a vampire-their prey had turned on them and became the hunters. They’d learned quickly that his kind was immune to most things, but gouts of magical fire and beheadings weren't exactly one of them. Sure, most would recover  _ eventually;  _ even if some cases required help, but the thought of pulling oneself painfully back tooth and nail into the world of the living was quite the warning. They’d retreated to the periphery of civilization, relegated to it by the threat of discovery and numbers far too low to form a society of their own. The only vampire cities that ever existed were in stories of their homeworld.

He shook himself from his thoughts, poultices done. Now for the  _ real  _ work. He sighed, and went back into the room to tend to his friend. His chest and abdomen were one thing right now, the water and blunt force trauma making them that way, but that wouldn't stay so for long. He needed to drain the water and clean out any foreign material like sand or silt before the diaphragm healed enough to trap the water and whatever else within the abdominal cavity. The easiest method would be to prop him up on his right side so that gravity could help him drain when Regis opened him up, but first he needed to bind Dettlaff to a board to support his spine and ribs and keep them immobile for the procedure. He had to filch a spare bench from the dining room, but it would do. Regis bound him to it, then made a long incision from collarbone to pubic bone, just through the skin and muscle taking care to keep the peritoneal sac intact. Disembowelment was the  _ last  _ thing Dettlaff needed.

He pinned the skin, muscle, and the burst diaphragm out of the way, and wedged the sternum open with retractors to let him drain, filthy lake water and blood pouring out onto the towels he’d laid down. There's a lot of the kind of gunk you would expect to find on a lakebed, and while Dettlaff’s body would have  _ eventually  _ filtered it out, that would have hindered his healing and caused him more pain to have irritants trapped in his body cavity when he was conscious enough to feel it. Regis scrubbed his hands viciously in sand and soap to get the encrusted gore off his skin and out from under his nails. Freshly scrubbed, he took the tray of cold cuts and cheese that Basil squeezed through the cracked door; he didn't want him seeing this rather gruesome procedure, no matter how used he was to his sister’s antics. The majordomo was quite sure to wonder just why he was meddling with a corpse and he didn't want any awkward questions. He was surprised at the sheer volume of food, but he downed the quite large pile all in one go as he’d been hungrier than he’d realized, and smiled wryly. Basil sure knew his doctors.

Fed and watered and with all the water drained from his patient, he could get to the more tedious task of thoroughly washing the body cavity. Regis accepted the newest batch of saline solution with a tired thanks, already starting to feel his still-healing body flagging from the work he’d done today. Granted it wasn't like he was digging ditches or anything, but it still took its toll. At least he was halfway done with Dettlaff, and could conceivably take a break for a few moments after he was done to check on the other patient and see if perhaps he could do a blood transfusion, or better yet, plasma. Geralt’s blood might work best for his first patient; being a witcher his blood would likely be the closest thing to such a mutated specimen. He knows pitiably little about witcher’s anatomy, despite having spent a good amount of time with one. He’d never had the occasion to really study him in depth, and he might wheedle the man into a thorough exam so that he could learn enough to effectively treat Geralt in the future. 

Still mulling that over he carefully starts washing Dettlaff’s body cavity, teasing out what he’d inhaled upon hitting the water. The impact on the rocks had forced the air from his lungs, and while they'd been shredded on the broken ribs they’d still managed to suck in a great deal of water and debris when he’d hit the water. Regis is in the middle of this tedious process when Geralt returns.

“...Why does he look like a gutted deer?”

“I needed to clean out any foreign objects he might have inhaled upon hitting the water,” He says, digging about in the left lung, “Or unwanted guests that might have moved in his brief stint on the lakebed.”

“Unwanted  _ guests _ -shit there's something moving in there!”

“I am-” Regis was trying to grab it with his fingers, but it had wedged itself in a crevice behind the esophagus and he was trying not to do  _ more  _ damage getting it out, and his other hand was trying to hold said esophagus in place “- _ Aware  _ of that, Geralt. I could use an extra hand- _ wash  _ first.”

Geralt splashed his hands in a fresh bowl of soapy water, rinsed them, and pinned the wriggly thing between thumb and forefinger so Regis could fish it out. It was, to the witcher’s amusement, a live crayfish. It flopped about on the soaked towels and Geralt watched it go; in his overtired state he was finding the fact that Regis had fished an upset crayfish out of Dettlaff’s chest the weird kind of funny that didn't exactly make you  _ laugh  _ but found amusing nonetheless.

[“Huh, dinner and a show.” ](https://i.imgur.com/LC0xskL.jpg)Geralt drawled, feeling a bit punchy. 

Regis gave him a withering look, not amused in the least. “Fish had already started to scavenge on him, Geralt, but there are other things that patrol the lake beds looking for a tasty meal. Water-dwelling insects for instance; it’s the reason I dislike eating crayfish.”

Geralt’s lip twitched, amused, but before he could make any other smart comments Regis set him to unpacking some of the tools he needed. He always carried the basics, but he needed a centrifuge for his other patient. A pure blood transfusion would probably kill him by iron poisoning, but he desperately needed some source of protein to rebuild all the tissue he’d lost and his digestive tract wasn’t working to get protein any other way. At least the first patient would require only a pint or two of witcher blood; Dettlaff would have required far more as his body would have had to go under the process of converting it into something his body could use, and it would exhaust his already depleted stores of energy to do so. He may be able to give Dettlaff small amounts of his blood when his digestive system was back up and running to help him heal though.

For now, he could do his best to help his body take care of itself. He stitched everything back in place, and put poultices on the burns. Dettlaff’s spine and ribs were far too ravaged to do much other than a firm wrapping to keep everything in one place so it would heal correctly. Their kind usually healed just as good as new, but damage to this degree ran the risk of a bone setting wrong, and he didn't want to have to re-break anything and cause his friend any more suffering than what he was already experiencing. He put a firm wrapping over the ribs and sternum, extending it down the hips to make sure it was good and snug.

At the end, he  _ still  _ looked like a corpse, but he was a clean and bandaged one. Regis flopped onto a chair and took the occasion to get a breather. Geralt did the same, taking the overdue bath that Basil had drawn up for him and inhaling the hearty stew that he’d been given. Basil-who’d taken to the nickname of ‘BB’ with a great deal of grace-had to get him two extra servings. The majordomo made a mental note that witchers and doctors shared a near insatiable appetite, and figured he’d have to hire an extra cook to keep the two fed. 

Geralt went back into the room and prodded Regis awake. “Your turn.”

Regis went and took a bath too. The water was starting to turn just a bit tepid, but it still helped him feel a bit better and gave him the second wind he needed to get some blood from Geralt. He sorted out the plasma and carefully fed it into the first patient, and then- _ finally _ -everything was done for the two. He was absolutely  _ exhausted  _ at the end of it, and Geralt-who’d had to donate two pints on top of all the other crap he’d done today-was past the limit of even his famous witcher stamina. Basil was able to get them into the large master bed and let them pass out sprawled on top of the covers, still fully dressed. They slept what was left of the afternoon away, not waking until nearly eight. 

Basil woke them for a late supper, promising Regis a bed of his own to sleep in if he got out of the witcher’s and ate something. He was loath to leave it, but now that he was up he was  _ hungry,  _ and he wasn't going to be able to go back to sleep now. He was glad to see that the food shoved under his nose was hot and hearty, some kind of stew with meat, marrow bones, and root vegetables.

“Delicious.” He mumbled between bites, trying to keep up his customary manners, but only just able to keep from speaking around a mouthful. “Your cooking skills are wonderful Basil.”

“Oh goodness, not mine; I’m rather hopeless in the kitchen. The cook has already gone home, but he whipped up something that would cook slowly over coals to be ready for you later.”

“Bless him.” He sighs, spreading the marrow on crusty bread and practically shoving it into his face. “Geralt, are you going to-?”

“I ordered something special earlier.” He looked amused.

Regis arched an eyebrow. “ ‘Special?’ ”

Basil came back with a large bowl. “-And the gentleman’s crayfish chowder.”

Geralt could  _ feel  _ Regis’ glare. 

* * *

_ He still couldn’t quite manage a full circuit of his yard, but he’d made a remarkable amount of progress over the year. He was now well enough to move freely about his room, grabbing onto railings and windowsills to keep his balance. He carefully made his way over to where Dettlaff was sitting to see what he was working on now. His friend was an accomplished artist, even if he looked at him funny when he praised his work, like his tediously detailed ink sketch of a raven’s wing was anything more than just faithfully reproducing what was already there. He was also an exceptionally good craftsman, repairing all of the furniture damaged by the looters and even installing a new door. When he’d asked him when he’d picked up such skills he’d gone silent for a while, then said that he’d learned from books and that his love of mathematics he’d gotten from the books he’d read at Regis’ side so long ago had come in handy learning it.  _

_ He had a feeling that there was more to it than that, but he’d felt a heavy sadness in the bond between them that forestalled any questions. Somewhere along the way, Dettlaff had changed from the open-faced, half-feral, frankly  _ **_strange_ ** _ child that asked blunt and inappropriate questions and was too naive to notice when he made others uncomfortable with them, to the closed-off, reserved and obviously depressed man than he knew now. He remembered how the others of the creche had been unwilling to socialize with him, including-to his deep regret-himself, eventually. When he’d discovered that his shyness fell away under the influence and that he was now suddenly popular, the quiet evenings reading with Dettlaff just didn't hold nearly as much appeal. After all, what healthy young man would choose books over raucous parties and sex with a partner (or two?) He’d tried to get Dettlaff to join him, but he’d refused his olive branch and called the parties silly of all things, and that was all the excuse he needed to push him away. It took a while-Dettlaff didn't get subtle hints-but after a few months of saying he was too busy and avoiding him, he stopped trying. He ignored any guilt he might have had because after all, Dettlaff was the one that refused. _

_ (never mind that he knew Dettlaff well enough to know he’d refuse-) _

_ And now it was only nearly centuries later that he met him again, having almost forgotten his face and name, and those years had not been kind to his one-time friend. Something had happened that he didn't like to talk about, or was it more like some _ **_things?_ ** _ Maybe it was smaller wounds inflicted over years and years, repeats of what had happened in the creche; because he didn't talk of other people he knew, vampire or otherwise. He didn't talk much of anything, actually; but Regis would get a sense of something in the way he’d start talking but then eventually trail off and stop, the bond thrumming with a heavy ache. _

_ He was slowly teasing out longer and longer conversations, and hoped that eventually he’d actually get a full story out of him one day, but it paid not to push. After suffering through regeneration twice, he fully knew the meaning of patience. For now, he was content to sit with him and read like they’d done those many, many years ago. _

_ He pulled out yet another anatomy book-this one on elves by a very influential medic of the species-and the movement disturbed one of the many drawings that the other man kept leaving everywhere. He was as untidy as most artists he’d met, and he kept finding the man’s charcoal sticks in weird places. This one, to his surprise, was a beautifully rendered full-body portrait rather than the still life or landscapes he favoured. It was of a young woman reading a book of fables in bed, the only source of light a fire in the hearth. It was a study in contrasts, deeply shadowed, more an impression of a shape and figure rather than his usual tediously detailed style. She was relaxed, her full attention on the book with the covers loosely draped around her, leaving her shoulders bare. It’s a very intimate picture, and he has the feeling that this was loose and impressionistic because he’d been there, with only the dim light of the fire to help him see the canvas. _

_ It’s unbearably personal, and he feels like he’d poked his nose into something that he shouldn't, even if only by accident. Dettlaff notices before he can slip it back, and he jerks like he’d been struck. _

_ “Sorry, I ah...didn't mean to pry.” He coughed, handing it over. Dettlaff took it and rolled it back up quickly but he didn't seem angry, so he decided to push his luck. _

_ “Someone you know?” _

_ “...Yes.” His voice is very quiet. _

_ He doesn't say anything more for a while, and he’s not going to push, but Dettlaff surprises him. _

_ “...Rhena. A human.” He pauses, then says finally “...My mate.” _

_ Regis’ eyes fly open in surprise. His mate? He had a mate? Well,  _ **_had_ ** _ , probably, considering that she wasn't here now and how short humans lived. _

_ “I...I’m sorry. Is she…?” _

_ Dettlaff swallows, and curls in on himself. “I don’t know.” _

_ Regis frowns, confused. “You...don’t know?” _

_ “She went missing.” He said, his voice a rasp. “Two years before I found you. I came back to our place, and she was gone. Her, and all of her things. No word. No note.” _

_ “She...she ran a hansa band. It’s dangerous; her line of...work.” He swallowed. “I think she was forced to leave, to flee, or she may have…”  _

_ His voice has a trembling, uncertain quality to it, and he stared down at the picture with a look of confusion and pain, and-oh. Oh  _ **_no_ ** _. _

_ Regis had a sudden, sickening flash of insight, born of his own horrible mistreatment of Dettlaff in the past and the fact that  _ **_the man didn't take hints._ **

_ “I…” He jerked his eyes away from the picture. “I heard of a hansa band that went to Stygga castle, I thought it might be... _

__

_ The younger vampire trails off, as he so often does, and Regis sits there, helpless. He’s usually so good with words, but they’ve all deserted him. “I...I’m sorry that you didn't find her.” _

_ “I did find you.” He said. _

_ Regis risks a smile. “And I’m glad you did.” _

_ Dettlaff gives him a small smile back. “As am I.” _


	6. A little bird

  
  
  


* * *

“Up and at ‘em doc.” 

A rather unkind finger prodded his shoulder. Half-awake he slipped one hand out from under the covers and ineffectually tried to wave away his tormentor. 

“Five more minutes.” He mumbled.

A snort, and he was let alone for the requested five minutes. All too soon his taskmaster returned however, waving a fragrant dish of breakfast near the edge of the blankets. Regis had disappeared under them completely, and Geralt had to lift the edge of the covers to allow the smell to waft in.

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.”

The blanket shook with laughter and Regis finally deigned to emerge, taking the proffered dish. Geralt sat on the edge of the bed and devoured his plateful too, not even really bothering to cut anything, just using a knife to shovel food into his mouth. Regis was slightly more refined, actually taking the time to dip his toast into the yolks instead of just mashing them all together and then shoving the mess into his mouth like his dining companion. He didn't bother to correct him, just shaking his head in fond exasperation at the man. 

“You up to brewing resonance?”

“Of course my friend.” He got out from under the covers. “First, I’ll check on our patients.”

“Regis, you’ll get dressed first. I don't pay BB enough to subject him to you in saggy underwear.”

He snorted and shoved the witcher off his bed unceremoniously. Geralt took the hint and wandered off to harangue some other poor fellow while he threw on some clothes that had been left out for him. His other clothes had disappeared somehow, though he’s sure that they’ll turn up scrubbed and pressed neatly later. It’s not like his clothes were  _ covered  _ in gore-he’d worn an apron after all-but he supposes that he’s glad that the majordomo had managed to sneak them off to get washed and even provided replacements for him in the meantime. And _ thoroughly _ amused that the man had thought to make sure the doctor in his care had clean, non-fussy clothes to tend to his patients in.

Fed and dressed he inspects his two new patients. He’d been too tired at the end of everything to take a step back and look them over, but he has the opportunity now to take a look with fresh eyes as he changes the bandages. Basil stops in briefly to tell him that one of the worker’s grandmother is a herbalist, and she’s brought lunch for her grandson. He quickly writes a list of the herbs he needs and gives it to the man to pass on. Sure he  _ could  _ go looking all over hill and dale looking for what he needs, but he doesn't know the area well and he doesn't feel like wasting a whole day just looking for components. That still leaves one last ingredient that no herbalist has, and he's stumped where he would even find something similar. 

Geralt came in and settled on a chair in the corner. “So, what’s this resonance, exactly?”

“Have you heard of Covinarius’ theory of tissue memory retention?”

“Hm. Rings a distant bell...read about it in ‘Alchemia Oblitera’. There’s a copy of at Kaer Morhen, tattered, nearly disintegrated.” And not because of being read too much he’s sure-it was pretty dull stuff that he’d idly skimmed when he’d been resting up after a bad run-in with a cockatrice after reading  _ everything  _ else. “But if memory serves, Covinarius never managed to prove it worked.”

“He  _ did  _ prove it.” 

And of course Regis had corresponded with the guy, and so of  _ course  _ he knew that he’d finished the research. Really, he shouldn't be surprised that the alchemy-obsessed vampire had talked directly with one of the biggest names in the field. He’s really tempted to make a smart comment asking if the correspondence had included hearts over the ‘i’s and spritzed with sage oil or whatever, but Regis would probably give as good as he got and in the retorts department the other man was better armed. He really should get him and Yen into a room and just watch with a snack in the corner. He allowed himself a half smile at the thought and re-focused on the discussion at hand.

“-is possible to use any piece of tissue to reconstruct what a whole body experienced.”

“How’s it work? Do we need any special equipment?”

Regis shook his head, waving to the equipment that had already been brought over and set up. A small pot was already set up over an unlit burner, ready to go. “We must brew a decoction which Covinarius gave a rather poetic name-resonance. Once imbibed, it sends one into a trance similar to that induced by narcotics.”

Oh, so he was about to get high off his ass and go on a trip-somewhat literally-through this guy’s head. Oh he’s  _ really  _ not sure about this. Vampires only look human on the surface; who can even say if their senses or thought processes are even anything _ like _ a humans? He knew animals could sense and see things humans couldn't, and he wasn’t sure what that would do to him to see through the eyes of a creature that might be seeing a whole  _ different  _ picture of the world. And hell, that was just the senses; mental processes were a different beast-heh-entirely. Trying to just figure out what fellow humans were thinking was possible in only the most general sense. Who’s to say vampires get to the conclusions they do in any way like humans? Melitele’s tits, he hopes that this doesn't fuck with his head. Thankfully according to what Regis was saying he’d only see passing visions of memories linked to strong emotions, so he hoped he wasn't  _ actually  _ going to be in Dettlaff’s skull.

Geralt chewed on that for a moment, before continuing on. “Covinarius spent half his life proving his theory. Wild guess-making a dose of Resonance won’t be easy.”

“True, it will not be the most simple of endeavors.” Regis sighed. “I will need a powerful occipital lobe stimulant-effectively a poison to make one susceptible to visions.”

Geralt tapped his fingers on his knee. “Hm. Well, I got a few ingredients to choose from. Unfortunately all are pretty rare…”

And, considering he’d rather not go all the way to Vizima for mammune glands or gouge a kobold’s eyes out,  _ and  _ spotted wights and their saliva were currently extinct, there really isn't...anything. He tells Regis as much, but all he does is rather enigmatically say that he’ll summon some help. He sighs and just lets the guy finish up with the side of burnt bacon and pickled eggs that are his patients because he knows Regis’ flair for the dramatic and he might as well let him have this.

“So, how are they doing today?”

“Well, I doubt they’ll show much improvement overnight, but Dettlaff’s incision has already started to heal at least.” 

He points out the angry, puckered line of the cut from collarbone to his groin, and he can see the edges have already started to adhere to each other, though a faint breeze could reopen the wound. The burns look...well, they’re still really bad. He supposes that his body is focusing on the internal damage right now.

“And the other guy?”

“Well, he’s lost  _ all  _ of his skin and most of the subcutaneous tissue, but unlike Dettlaff he at least doesn't have massive internal trauma. Biggest hurdle in his way is malnutrition, as well as rehydrating himself and  _ keeping _ hydrated.” He starts to undo the bandages. “Although...ah, good. He’s started to plump up a bit.”

Geralt gave him an odd look at the choice of words. “Still think he’s a little lean for eating; maybe a stew.”

“Everyone’s a jester in their own court.” Regis snorted. “But look at him, he’s not quite so emaciated as he was yesterday, and some tissue is starting to regenerate. Another dose of saline I think, then some more plasma later down the line since he’s passing fluids so well. Or, well enough considering the kidneys are only just functioning.”

“Mmm, like mine when I see Eskel and Lambert.” He mused. 

“Ah, yes. I imagine the drinking gets a little out of hand with you and your fellow witchers.”

“Not just the drinking.”

“Oh? I sense there’s a story there.”

“Several. Tell you more later.” He smirked. 

“I’ll hold you to it.” Regis steps out briefly to brew up some saline, and then feeds it into the first patient. Now they were watered he wandered out the back of the estate, behind the house. Regis looked about, making sure that they weren't being watched, and then held out an arm. Geralt watched with interest as a raven fluttered over and alighted on it, and it seemned to listen intently to the doctor as they had a conversation in a register he couldn't quite hear. It fluttered off, and Regis turned to him.

“He and his brethren will search for the creatures you mentioned. I daresay it’ll be faster than one witcher roaming hill and dale for them. But,” He smiled, holding out a bottle he’d gotten from his satchel. “It will take them a while. I believe you were looking forward to this…?”

Geralt grinned, taking the proffered bottle. “Is that your mandrake hooch?”

“It is indeed; you deserve a snifter or two.”

“After yesterday I deserve a case, but a bottle will do.” He pops the cork, not wanting to waste time. “You want to take a tour around the estate? Hadn't gotten a chance to actually look at the place since I got here, and BB offered to show us around.”

“Gladly. I would love a walk in such pleasant environs; and it’ll help me get over my sheer disbelief over you owning property.”

“Oh, ha ha.” He paused. “...To be fair I don’t really believe it myself though. Still feels weird actually  _ owning  _ something.”

“Perhaps seeing your estate will cement it in your mind that you are actually the lord of it.” He gestured grandly. “Then by all means lead on, Lord of Corvo Bianco.”

Geralt grimaced. “Please tell me you aren't going to start addressing me like that.”

Regis gave him a shit-eating grin and he knew the insufferable vampire would never let him live it down. Oh well, worth it for the hooch. He takes a swig and they start off, Basil all too happy to show the two gentlemen about the estate. They came up to a hill overlooking the estate, and paused there to pass the bottle back and forth as they admired it.

“Pretty vast…”

Regis noticed the slightly intimidated look on the witcher’s face. “Indeed. A blessing that you have plenty of help in assisting it to thrive.”

Geralt smiled appreciatively at the vampire, and Basil led them on the path around the estate, showing them the servants quarters, the olive grove, and the grape vines. Lastly they took a look at the cellar, which apparently was used to store wine and olive oil at one time; though more recently it was used for the ducal morgue. 

“Why on earth was it appropriated for use as a morgue?” Regis said.

“Just as I got here, there had been a third victim of...the beast.” Geralt explained, deciding to keep referring to the murderer in the anonymous sense; Basil didn't need to know just who it had been, and who they had in the house. Maybe they could trust the majordomo, but he’d rather not take the risk. “The body was taken here, since it was the closest unused cellar at the time. Kept it fresh so I could examine the body.”

Regis was intrigued. “What did you find?”

“This, and the other killings, were ritualistic.” He explained. “This one the man was killed with a single blow to the heart, a bag of coins from all different areas shoved down the throat, and then the body was quartered and thrown into the river.”

Regis looked quite taken aback. “That is...quite vicious.”

Geralt watched his friend’s expression as it went from surprise to something between disturbed and deeply concerned. Regis has never shied away from killing when it’s a necessity, fighting alongside the rest of them in stygga castle, but the idea of Dettlaff killing a man in cold blood and butchering the corpse clearly worries him.

“Ghastly,” Basil agrees. “I can’t imagine what manner of creature would kill in such a bloodthirsty way.”

_ What manner of beast, indeed.  _ Regis thinks, pursing his lips and frowning deeply. Dettlaff was...well, beastly, sure; and sometimes he could sense that he had a lot of anger under the surface, but this was  _ not  _ like him at all. He can feel Geralt’s questioning gaze on him, and can guess what his question might be, but he doesn't have an answer. When Dettlaff wakes up, he would have a lot of questions about  _ why  _ for the younger vampire, sure, but most of all he’d wonder if he was...well, if he was all right. The kind of mental space you had to be in to commit cold-blooded murder was by no means a healthy one. 

Basil and Geralt continue on much as they had before but Regis is decidedly quiet, hanging back a step or two. Geralt throws a look back at him every once in a while, but leaves him be. They wind up back at the house, and are given brief details of the layout, which includes a kitchen, attic, and guest room. The guest bedroom is actually upstairs but has to be cleaned out of two owners worth of junk so it can be used. Basil has already started with the cleanup, sorting through the stored knick knacks for anything useful or worth some money. The duchy is paying the estate salaries for the first year until the place can produce its own wine, but he’s taking everything he can get to help with the many renovations that this place will need. Geralt gives him some more money to help with the repairs, and then they’re left in the dining room to drink away the time that they have to wait until Regis’ birds have come back with the news. 

Silence settles in while Geralt takes a swig, watching Regis. He’s still got that frown hovering around his mouth, but he doesn't talk. Normally the guy can’t shut up, but this time it looks like Geralt will have to take initiative.

“Oren for your thoughts.”

Regis looks up from where he’d been intently staring at the tabletop, seeing more than just woodgrain in his mind’s eye. “Not...quite fully-formed thoughts per say Geralt. More a feeling of general unease.”

“About the killings and the hand your friend had in them, I’m guessing.”

“Mmm.” He falls silent for a moment. “I...suppose with you only knowing him from your brief encounter you’ll have a difficult time believing it but Dettlaff is not given to premeditated murder. Certainly not something that requires such...specifics.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Remember that I said that he is more bestial than most?”

“Sure. You also said that he’s naive, in a way; can’t understand what it means to lie either. How the hell does he not understand lying? Little kids know how to lie. Can’t tell you how many times Ciri tried to get out of trouble by lying her way out of it.”

“Did she ever succeed?”

“No, but she  _ tried _ .”

“Well, Dettlaff can...well, he can  _ try _ to lie. He is, however, terrible at it. Worse than any small child. A three year old could see through it. He only knows of lying, in the...abstract sense.”

“Is he…” He frowns, trying to think of a nice way of saying this. “Uh, mentally...different from other vampires? Because most I’ve met are pretty capable of things like lying. Met a Katakan once that was going on a religious crusade against whores and such, lied right to my face when we chatted about the deaths, so you guys are capable of pretty similar behaviours as us. Why isn't  _ he  _ able to do it?”

“...Are you asking if he’s imbecilic?”

“Well, he wasn't drooling on himself when I met him, so he’s not idiotic, but maybe feeble-minded? No offense.”

“None taken. But no, not...well, not  _ quite  _ in the way that you’re thinking. He is actually remarkably intelligent, but where he’s lacking is in the understanding of people. He has difficulty reading the subtleties of expressions or tone, or expressing the same. He can come across as stoic, but not because he actually is such; mainly because he’s rather like you-unable to fully articulate his moods via facial expressions. He also cannot read non-verbal cues, like body language. For instance he will talk at length about a subject he enjoys to a person, and will utterly fail to notice his chosen audience's desire to move on or escape from the diatribe.”

“Don’t  _ you  _ do that all the time?”

“Oh Geralt, I  _ do _ notice when you’re about to fall asleep in the middle of my explanations on various herbal properties. I just like to jabber on because who  _ else _ is going to listen to me? Besides, it’s only fair you endure that in exchange for the ridiculous things you put me through.” 

Geralt gives him a look of exasperated fondness, and Regis grins back before continuing on. “His inability to understand nuance comes with the inability to lie. To lie, or to detect lies, you must have an understanding of the concept of nuance, subtlety, guile, call it what you wish but he is  _ anything _ but. Among ourselves, we have a saying ‘your fangs aren't as sharp as your tongue.’ With him, it is the very opposite.”

“So,” Geralt drawls, “in a word, he’s as blunt as a city guard’s nightstick on the skull of some drunk beggar. ”

“You are as candid as ever, my friend.” 

Geralt snorts. “Fine. So your friend has got this blind spot when it comes to certain things? Does that  _ really  _ make him incapable of premeditated murder?”

“No, he is quite capable of it. Should he be sufficiently motivated to take revenge for injury to himself or others, he is perfectly able to track his target and kill them in a location suitable for it. That’s just basic logic that even a troll is capable of.”

“So what’s so different about these murders?”

“This...desecration of the corpse, the props and post-mortem butchery...such calculated,  _ creative _ methods of killing is an alien concept to him. It’s not that he’s completely incapable of murder, but this... _ method _ of doing so is very uncharacteristic of him.” Regis looks very uncomfortable. 

Geralt mulls this over. “So...it’s the creativity of the kills that’s so unusual for him.”

Thinking about it, the kind of creativity that involved symbolism with coin purses wasn't something that a guy like Dettlaff would understand. Besides being, uh, mentally... _ unique _ even among vampires, from what Regis told him the guy apparently avoided humans like the plague, so he wouldn't really be familiar with the kind of human customs that such symbolism would draw from. Speaking of avoiding humans, it  _ was _ unusual to find him in a city, much less a party. If he had his druthers, he’d avoid killing in such a public place that would draw so much attention. 

Regis steepled his fingers. “I think that somewhere, out there, is our  _ real  _ mastermind, and Dettlaff is nothing more than an accomplice.”

“Still an accomplice.” Geralt growled. “And I doubt the duchess would see him as pure as the driven snow. Maybe he wasn't the one to come up with the  _ idea  _ to shove a coin purse down a man’s throat, but he’s certainly the guy with the blood on his hands. Or...claws. Whatever.”

“Who  _ says _ the duchess would get a voice in the matter? As far as she knows, the beast is dead.”

“For now, sure. But Regis, if your friend was helping someone kill people there’s nothing stopping him from getting up and continuing this shadowy mastermind’s work.”

“Let me worry about that, my friend.”

Geralt sighs. “Regis, if it turns out your friend is on a crusade-”

“Then I will do my best to persuade him of the error of his ways. Besides, from what you tell me he may very well be an unwilling accomplice. Did you not say that he begged for assistance, for mercy, not for himself but for someone else?”

“Yeah,” The witcher drawled. “Funny, I get the feeling you know who that might be, actually.”

Regis was a good actor, but not good enough he was sure. He entertains the idea of trying to deflect for all of two seconds before caving. “He...does have someone he’d kill for.”

“ _ Do  _ tell.”

“Rhenawedd. His one-time lover; the sole human with whom he was very close.”

Geralt gave him an incredulous look. “Seriously? After what you told me of his social skills and how much he avoids humans?”

“Honestly, I’m surprised as you are.” Regis says bluntly, agreeing with his statement. “But from what little he told me of her, she accepted him. With her aid and care, he found a small place for himself in this hostile world. She began the work that I strive to continue.”

“What work; seeing humans as something other than food?”

“Oddly enough, he never partook of blood in a, ah,  _ recreational _ manner, but he certainly does not see other races-especially humans-in a very positive light. He tolerates your kind and others in only very small doses. She, however, started to warm him to ideas that my mentor and I championed: applying a broader sense of empathy to humanity as a whole, not just a few select individuals that you like.”

“Tough job, when humans themselves think the whole rest of humanity is full of bastards.”

“True, but humans can at least feel  _ some  _ empathy for a person in distress, regardless of how little a personal connection they have to them.” He explained. “However, one of our own would find it difficult to muster even the vaguest of concern. Perhaps Dettlaff could, as he’s much more empathetic than most, but still. True empathy on the behalf of strangers is a concept that is difficult for us vampires to grasp. Looking at the teeming masses of humanity it is easy for you to understand the individuality of each member; you know among them is a baker with a pair of girls under five, there is a beggar with a leg wounded in the war. For us, it is an unordered hoard that we have difficulty sympathizing with. I believe it stems from being so highly individualistic; each our own kings in our own castle, no social order save for our immediate pack members and even then no one is the ‘leader’ per say. ”

Geralt was silent for a moment. “So. If humans are dogs, vampires are a gang of alley cats.”

“Unflattering as the comparison is, it’s also quite accurate.” Regis said, amused.

Geralt smiles back, then comes back to the subject at hand. “So, this Rhena, she’s obviously important to him to have that kind of ability to bring him around to the idea.”

“Indeed, though I never had the pleasure of meeting her. She ‘disappeared’ before he came around to save me.”

“Why the emphasis?”

“Apparently she vanished one day. Her belongings vanished with her. Not a scenario one associates with being kidnapped or other such shady business. I’m given to thinking she left; perhaps after seeing his more monstrous side. Even the most firey of ardour would quail at the sight of one of us in our feral forms overtaken by rage.” He paused, remembering Stygga castle and how he’d given in to bloodlust then, the terror of him seen in the face of friend and foe alike. “...I am not so ignorant to believe that love is truly blind. Even it has its limits.”

Regis looks at his friend, and the gaze is gentle and knowing, and he is forced to look away. 

Geralt has to break the awkward silence. “So, he’s in denial about her leaving him?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Nah, considering what you’ve told me about him I’m not surprised. Like you said, he’s naive.” He took a swig from the bottle of mandrake, the last of it. “So, to recap: Dettlaff is probably doing this to protect his mate. So we have a motive, a good one. And he’s got no problem with killing strangers, and with your guy’s lack of empathy for lives outside of the immediate pack, the blood of these people mean nothing to him.”

“Well, I wouldn't say killing them would have no effect. Killing needlessly in cold blood, while perhaps not as traumatizing to you humans, is still...disturbing, to him. He is essentially being forced to kill up close and personal, while the nature of the killings is impersonal. It’s a distressing kind of dissonance, that.”

Geralt shrugged; not like that made much of a difference. “Thirdly, we’ve got some guy out there that’s somehow gotten a dysfunctional vampire assassin to kill in a specific way. Missing anything?”

Regis mulls it over. “No, I believe you’ve tidily summarized everything.”

“And all  _ I  _ have to do is find a way to find out who’s behind it and rescue this woman of his; all before he’s well enough to get up and rip me and everyone else a new one.”

“I have faith in you Geralt.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence Regis.” He drawled.

Any other smart comments would have to wait as a raven perched on the windowsill, forcing Regis to get up to greet it. 

“Any luck?”

Regis sighed. “You were right. No kobolds or mamunes for miles around...”

“Knew it.”

“Allow me to finish. You see, there’s this spotted wight. It haunts an abandoned residence in the Caroberta woods.”

Geralt is skeptical to say the least and says as much, but Regis insists that his spies’ information is accurate, even in the face of them saying the oddest things. He can’t help but raise an eyebrow at the mention of the spoons, and Regis doesn't even try to defend the statement. Regardless, he doesn't have a better choice of action other than at least  _ trying _ to investigate, and as soon as he agrees Regis turns to start brewing the resonance.

“Yes, till later. I shall start by perusing some tomes.”

Geralt stopped in the middle of putting on armor. “Tomes? Thought you already knew what you need, I saw you give a list for the herbalist.”

“We require one last ingredient. Alas, obtaining it might prove a trifle toilsome-”

Oh, he wasn't going to leave without getting a straight answer. Not like he was all set to leave yet anyway, he’d only just got the fiddly cup on. “What ingredient,  _ specifically.” _

Regis sighed. “Vampire blood.” he said, for once getting right to the point.

“Well, we’ve got two to choose from, so what’s the issue?”

“It’s...not quite that straightforward my friend.” He grimaced, and Geralt had a feeling that this was about to be straightforward alright, but not pleasant in the least. “The blood must be in an  _ agitated  _ state. As I’m certain you know, higher vampires can change their corporeal shell. As our flesh changes, so does our blood’s chemical composition.”

_ Oh great, another long explanation. _ “Five words or less, Regis.”

“Wh-you can’t-”

“That’s three.”

Regis glared at him for a long moment. “...angry blood.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “So the vampire has to be pissed off?”

Regis, just to be difficult, obligingly said nothing.

“Well, we’re halfway there. Now, all I have to do is fold corners in the pages of all your books.”

“Don’t you dare!” Regis snapped. 

“Ahh, your silence was good while it lasted.” Geralt sighed, sounding very put-upon.

“You are a terrible man.” Regis growled. “But to be perfectly serious, the donor has to be in a state of madness, rabidity. And that could be very dangerous.”

That gave him pause. A vampire that was out of it’s mind with anger or other emotion was...well, ‘dangerous’ was a huge understatement, to put it lightly. “What if we piss Dettlaff off? I mean, he’s too weak to be really dangerous.”

Regis gave him a skeptical look. “And...how do you propose to get an unconscious man to this state?”

Geralt opened his mouth, let it hang open for a second, then shut it to think deeply. “...Is he taking any painkillers?”

Regis raised an eyebrow. “I have him on opiates. I intend to keep him as pain-free and unconscious as long as I can; we heal better in a state of estivation.”

“He’s sorta there though. Saw him twitch a bit.” Geralt rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Does poppy milk work the same on you guys as it does us?”

“Opiates work on all vertebrates, and many invertebrates.” 

Geralt just blinked at him, adopting a look of patience.

“Yes, Geralt. That’s a yes.”

“How... _ aware _ do you think he is? Right now.”

Regis gave him a confused look, clearly not sure where this was going and not enjoying the shoe being on the other foot, but he turned to regard the younger vampire. The bond they had through shared blood allowed him to sense the general mood of his friend most times. At the best of times when they were both awake and had skin contact  _ and  _ he focused intently he could sometimes even get a phrase or a blurry image, though he thinks it’s only that strong on account of Dettlaff being a powerful empath with lower vampires and-to a far lesser degree-higher ones. He thinks that they could potentially link to each other’s minds, but neither of them were comfortable with pursuing that level of intimacy, especially Dettlaff. Right now, he could get a faint sense of  _ someone  _ there, like a faint buzzing at the back of his mind. He picked up the younger vampire’s hand and held it, focusing intently.

“I believe…” He said slowly, “The opiates have him in a deep state of estivation.”

“And that is…?”

“It’s a type of hibernation. Normally we only enter into such a state every century or so for short periods to repair the damage to ourselves that this world inflicts on us.”

“ _ Damage?  _ The hell? _ ” _

“Our original world the atmosphere was far thinner, in such a place the vitation it inflicts on our cells were far more limited and it was more of a tactic to sleep through periods of famine. Here, however, the air ages us, and we enter into such a state to limit our exposure long enough to repair the damage-” He smiled at the glazed look of confusion on Geralt’s face. “But, we also estivate to recover from injury, or in the case of some, to just pass the time.”

“Huh. Met one that was doing that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, a katakan. Told me to fuck off and let him sleep until it was 1300.”

“Amusing as that is, it’s not uncommon.”

“So, just how...awake are one of you guys in this state?”

Regis put a hand to his chin, thinking just how to explain it. “I...suppose it is like the deepest state of sleep a human enters into. Dreaming is rare, and it’s the stage most often host to sleepwalking and night terrors. In humans, that is. Our version of sleep is a bit different, of course.”

“Close enough.” Geralt muttered.

“May I ask just what do you have in mind for him? And please don’t even  _ think  _ of suggesting we hurt him in any way. He’s had quite enough of bodily harm for the next century, I think.”

Geralt snorted. “Nah, nothing like that. I just...look, have you ever had to take weed oil for pain?”

Regis shook his head. “I heal quickly, and the only times I would have needed it were times when no one was around to give it to me; or had the medical background to understand that such an opiate could be used.”

“Okay, so  _ I’ve  _ been on super high doses of weed oil because we didn't have poppy milk, and let me tell you, not a fun time.” Geralt said lowly. “The dreams I got on that amount of shit were horrifying.”

Regis grimaced. “I am familiar with the effects of higher doses of cannabis oil has. I do try to avoid that.”

“You got some then?”

“Yes I-oh.” He blinked, then shook his head at the obvious conclusion. “I see what you want to try. I mean, it’s no guarantee, but certainly we can switch to the oil to try and see if we can get him agitated enough for resonance. It will take him a little bit for the opium to wear off and stop suppressing his brain activity so he’s capable of having dreams under the cannabis, but I imagine by the time you’ve returned he’ll be ready.” 

Regis digs around in his satchel, pulling out a vial that Geralt can smell from here. Weed wasn’t the horrible smelling thing compared to the other ungents and decoctions he used on a regular basis, but it had a potent oily stink to his enhanced nose.

He shifts in his chair. “Think it’ll work?”

Regis looked uncomfortable. “He...he has nightmares on the high end of ‘often’. Even on the best of days.”

Geralt cocked an eyebrow. “What the hell could cause a  _ vampire  _ to have nightmares?”

“Honestly, I’m not quite sure. We vampires don’t have the existential dread of death as you humans have, and are nigh invulnerable. We have so little to be frightened of or be injured by; so our slumber is rather less disturbed than you humans who have so much more to fear or be traumatized by.” He paused, thinking. “I have a theory that such restlessness is a product of his unique ability-as you are well aware we each have at least one- his being ‘herd instinct’.”

“What the hell is that?”

As Regis explained it, he apparently had a telepathic link to lesser vampires; garkains, plummards and the like. At any one time he could sense such beasts within a half-mile or further if he focused, and if he really applied himself and had the time he could command hordes of the creatures. Higher vampires-such as bruxa-he could telepathically communicate with, but he couldn't really order them to follow his commands like the lesser ones. Or, well, maybe he  _ could,  _ but Geralt got the impression that it was extremely difficult to and he probably wouldn't really want to, either because it was hard or because mentally dominating a sentient was just a horrible thing to do.

Geralt’s eyebrows went up. “That's an impressive ability.”

“Indeed. Unfortunately it comes with a rather exhausting drawback: he can’t turn it off.” He gave Dettlaff a sympathetic look. “I imagine the strain from such a thing leads to restless sleep when you are constantly being bombarded with the sensations of a pair of fleders having a territorial spat, not to mention the dozens of plummards. I can’t imagine being flooded with sensations when one is too deeply under to filter or process the input to be distressing.”

Geralt gave Regis a curious look. “This is a theory of yours though? He didn't just... _ tell _ you about his dreams?”

Regis looked uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot. “Ah...no. Not really. I tried, but he...well, he’s quite private.”

Geralt paused. Sure, the theory sounded solid, but…

_ He remembers the look Yen gives him when he wakes in her arms, sweating and shivering and grateful that her ability to read minds saved him from speaking about the monsters in his own head out loud.  _

Maybe he’s just making wild guesses; projecting. This is a vampire after all, not some fragile mortal that had to worry about his daughters getting raped like his neighbors in the aftermath of war. 

“Has he always had bad dreams?”

“I confess that I didn't know him very well when we were younger, but I assume so.”

Geralt blinked.  **_Assume_ ** _ so?  _ “Regis, just how much do you actually  _ know  _ about Dettlaff, and how much is guesswork?”

Regis is silent for a long, long time.

“He…He has had little kindness in his life, due to the reasons I mentioned earlier. I can feel it, every time he wishes to speak, but cannot find the words.” Regis looks pained. “That much I don’t have to guess.”

Geralt moves to stand next to his friend, shoulder to shoulder, because he’s not good with words but some things don’t need them. 

Regis seems to take some solace from his presence, because he eventually sighs, and stoops to carefully pry Dettlaff’s mouth open. Taking the dropper, Regis drips some under his friend’s tongue. It doesn't take much-only slightly more than a human-because while vampires have complete immunity to infections and most poisons on account of their regeneration factor they weren't particularly resistant to cannabis. That, in combination with suddenly going off the opiates was going to be...unpleasant for Dettlaff. Also, a higher dose of cannabis than normal pretty much guaranteed vivid, disturbing dreams. Regis wasn't looking forward to what that would do to Dettlaff. Yes, they needed the blood for Resonance, but despite it being a better alternative than the one he’d dreaded doing to himself he still wasn't fond of it by any means.

As long as he’d been aware enough to feel his friends' moods, he’d felt how he’d suffered from uneasy sleep. Mostly it was the kind that led to tossing and turning, but sometimes he’d felt far stronger sensations from him. Fear, anger, and others. Perhaps the sensations of multitudes of vampire minds assaulting his unconsciousness was as stressful as he’d theorized, but when he’d woken from his dreams to see Regis hovering over him he’d immediately started to fervently apologize...well. Growing up brought growing pains with it, like an uncomfortable level of self-awareness of your shortcomings. Regis had had his own epiphany at the stupidity of his actions at the bottom of a shallow grave, but he could bet that his friend had his in a less earthshaking way; and now that he was aware of how... _ different  _ he was, Regis could feel his heart ache every time the bond had shaken with fear and anxiety when around him. It had gotten better as his recovery wore on, but he can’t help but wonder if that level of stress during his waking hours didn't have an effect on his unconscious ones. Not something that he could exactly... _ explain _ to Geralt though. 

Dosing done, Regis settles in his chair next to Dettlaff’s bedside with a heavy sigh to wait.


	7. Mercy Of The Fire

* * *

_ -ena _

_ -Rhena _

_ -they’ll kill- _

_ -‘you are him aren't you?’ _

_ -Rhenawedd _

_ -‘Uncle’ Drosselmeyer.’ _

_ -I...could tell you it, if you like?’ _

“ _ - _ love that.”

Dettlaff blinked, looking up from fiddling with the buttons on his vest. “You do?”

Dalia smiled at him, the skin around her eyes crinkling. Hers was the kind of face that smiled easily. Perhaps it was a halfling trait, though he was sure that she was just a naturally jovial sort.

“You always look so handsome in black brocade. Well, you’re handsome in most anything, but it does suit you.”

He preened under the praise, smoothing down the front of the vest again. He didn't have much of a sense for fashion, but he loved textual things. Carved wood, tooled leather, and of course, richly embroidered fabric. This one-to his amusement-was decorated with bats of course. Not unsurprising considering Jerome had all but thrown the bolt into his arms. The witcher had a rather unsubtle sense of humor.

Speaking of his friend, the man himself was glowering at the selections of fashionable outfits. Jerome wasn’t at all enthused at being faced with fancy dress, entirely convinced that no amount of silk was enough to make a scarred, wiry man such as himself fit in among the landed nobility at a ball. Dettlaff was at least blessed with naturally good looks; not that he was a good judge, but Dalia was and he trusted her impeccable judgment. 

He went to stand next to him. “We  _ are _ going to be wearing masks.”

Jerome gave him a sidelong look. “Dettlaff, even a fucking potato sack over my head, and a dark room is not going to help.”

“Oh come now, you aren't  _ that-”  _ Dalia started, and Jerome turned his claw-marred, shrapnel-pocked, and tipped-ear face towards her. 

“...Well, you  _ are  _ going to be wearing a mask.” She said weakly. Jerome just rolled his eyes.

The tailor-an elf named Tasar-stepped out of the back room, carrying another selection of fabrics. The man had taken prettying up his friend as a personal challenge, and seeing how wonderfully he’d kitted out himself he was sure that the witcher would turn out at least halfway decent. The elf was practically falling over himself to assist too, which Jerome observed with a gentle sort of bemusement, letting the slender and somewhat birdlike man peck about his feet, muttering about ‘burnt sienna’ and ‘linen-silk blends’. In contrast to Dettlaff, whom he’d dressed in blacks and cool navy blues, or Dalia in her pastel pinks and greens, he was outfitting the witcher in warm yellows and dull oranges. He’d taken Jerome’s absolute refusal to wear hose and a tight-fitting doublet with a great deal of grace, and was now outfitting him in a comfortable tunic and loose pants with a sash about the waist. 

“Not exactly the height of fashion,” Tasar murmured, “But I rather doubt a ruff would suit the gentleman anyway.”

He took some measurements so he could adjust the fit later, fussing and remeasuring again and again, before finally leaving Jerome be. His friend suffered through it all with an amused look on his face, smiling lazily at the tailor who looked flustered under the gaze, beating a hasty retreat. Dettlaff supposed that even the quite tolerant tailor was starting to get uncomfortable around a witcher; people usually did, though at least the elf wasn't spitting and calling his friend a freak.

He hoped that the tailor would tolerate the witcher long enough to get him properly outfitted. They all needed to look their best for the ball he and Dalia had been invited too. Jerome hadn’t  _ technically  _ been invited, but he was permitted to bring a guest and he would like to bring someone along that detested crowds as much as he did. This was to be his first (and hopefully only) public appearance as the tinkerer he’d spent the last few years of his life as. He’d never intended to become famous, but apparently his skills were such that even the reigning monarch was requesting him to be there to present the commision he’d ordered. Dalia was usually the face that he presented to the world, taking orders and attending events on his behalf while he hid in the workshop, but he couldn't exactly turn down the invitation of the queen herself.

He strokes his own shoulder, soothing his nerves with the brocade- _ and his nerves need soothing because she’s enraptured by the tale, Rhena resting her chin in her hands, and he can feel a pleasant sort of anxiety settle in his stomach- _

_ But then his shoulder starts to tingle, to  _ **_burn,_ ** _ the witcher bomb having hit it, dribbling flames down his chest, his hip- _

_ The flames look like other flames, blue and orange, licking at wood over a burning tenement, screams of- _

-Laughter, because Jerome has made another joke; a dirty terrible joke that Dettlaff only part-way gets, but that doesn't stop him from laughing along with Dalia and Tasar, their laughter a little uneven with wine, uncaring of how they know he doesn't always  _ get it,  _ but  _ unwilling _ to exclude him from the humor. He doesn't need the explanation anyway, and they don’t patronize him by offering. 

His tiny pack of strange people; a halfling women that shared his love of cogs and wheels and tinkling music made with metal bars, Tasar the tailor that they’d picked up along the way lending his skills and gossip to the little intrigues that the Witcher sometimes finds himself roped into, and Jerome. Oldest, most faithful friend that had drug him out of a hellhole of gore, out of the woods, and into the edge of the city with patience because ‘being a shut-in is unhealthy, you angry bastard’. And the path to being about as social as a person like him is capable of being is long, but it’s better with someone who knows how stupid and illogical and  _ laughable  _ humanity is, who makes it more palatable with jabs at it and being something outside of it himself, sometimes more so than even a vampire because he doesn't have the luxury of hiding his slit eyes.

And they’re all enjoying a come-down from the latest contract, the tinker, tailor, soldier and spy (some overlap between the roles) with wine because it’s very appropriate, and he’ll be the only one without a hangover in the morning so he doesn't care what’s in his glass. Tasar has taken his customary post lounging as indolently as he can manage all over Jerome’s lap on the bed while Dalia perches at the foot, smiling down on them all like a benediction while he sits on the floor at her feet, letting her clever little fingers run along his scalp. She adores his hair even while she bemoans his unmanageable height, and he’s willing to be adored if she’ll keep lightly scratching the skin. It’s a pleasantly domestic scene that he’s unwilling to leave, but they all have to sleep sometimes, even him. 

Jerome and Tasar take the little truckle bed that he keeps ready for his wanderlusting friend in the back of the show floor, while he and Dalia head to the second floor where the workshop and their bedrooms are. She has a wonderfully carved bed with real sheets while he has fur on straw because he has wrecked too many beds to bother. His nightmares are  _ better  _ but he hasn't ever  _ stopped _ being woken by the stink of blood and rotting flesh and the remembered burn of henbane on his sensitive flesh. Dalia can hear him sometimes-the walls are thin-but she never asks, just offers tea and a tiny hand on his shoulder.

He wakes in the morning not to blood but bacon, one night for once undisturbed. One of the growing many, and it makes him hopeful that nights disturbed by dreams might be few someday.  _ Someday.  _ He comes slouching out of his den like a bear out of hibernation, body unwilling to give up its nocturnal rhythms. Dalia gives him a generous slice of bacon-a luxury-and an omelet stuffed with cheese as a reward for getting up before noon. Simple fare, but the witcher always manages to make almost anything at least passable as food because they had spent many nights out in the wilds, and frog legs might as well taste good if you were being forced to eat them. He does not understand the nuances of tea though, which is Dalia’s job in the kitchen, and she puts down a mug of wonderfully fragrant...whatever it is, in front of him. 

Tasar’s role is to make himself a nuisance. He twines catlike around Jerome until he growls and shoos him off so he doesn't burn things while distracted, whereas he encumbers Dalia instead until she shoos him off in turn so she doesn't spill the rest of the tea. Logically, as the last person in the room not occupied with anything more complex than eating, Dettlaff is the next person to drape himself on, making the simple process of eating a damn omelet more complex when burdened with an affectionate elf. It’s not anything he isn't used to though, having had plenty of katakan pups clinging to his front and flocks of plumards settled on his shoulders-sometimes both, at the same time-and it’s at a point he’s unused to  _ not _ having physical affection showered on him at all hours, so he’s happy to let Tasar occupy every inch of his personal space. Or, at least until the next omelet is ready, whereupon he’s abandoned in favor of food. 

All of them fed and watered, Dettlaff is persuaded to accompany Jerome to the market. He rarely leaves home in the daytime, preferring to prowl during the night like the stereotype of his species does, if only because the city is quieter at night with most of its residents indoors. He is still not fond of the teeming masses, but with a familiar pack member at his side, it is just barely tolerable. With Jerome a comforting presence, he is in a calm enough state of mind to peruse wares and admire a pretty set of jewelry for sale like any normal person. He doesn't dare touch any, as he has a more than normal weakness to the caustic effects of silver, but he can examine the artisans’ work with a knowledgeable eye. He listens to Jerome chatting with the local butcher with half an ear as he peers at a bracelet inset with amber.

“They’s getting bolder.” Muttered the man, a dwarf.

“How many victims now?” Jerome asked.

“Another two last night” He replied grimly, the words punctuated by the  _ thunk thunk  _ of the blade as he cut a chicken into quarters. “Didn't even bother dumping the bodies this time. Beat them to a pulp on the  _ main street,  _ the cocky bastards.”

“Not like they’ve got much to be scared of anyway,” Jerome muttered. “Nobody in this damn city really cared much about non-humans to begin with, but these fucks wanna provoke a race war and they’re doing a damn good job of it.”

The dwarf snorted. “What do you care eh? Got your swords, got your humanity. Even if you got pussycat eyes an look as some un’ left you in vat o’ whitewash too long.”

“Think they’ll care about that? Cocksucking bastards burned a herbalist alive, a  _ human  _ one, because fucking tansy tea is an abomination.  _ Apparently. _ ” His lip curled. “I get jumped by them, sure, I can kick them so hard in the nuts they’ll be gargling their own balls, but guards won’t see it that way. I’ll be in the clink for ‘public disturbance’.”

The dwarf sighed, conceding the point. “Didn't mean to imply anything. Jus’ frustrated, is all.”

“Aren't we all.” He drawled as the butcher finished his task, handing over the soup bones he’d asked for. “Take care of yourself Devlin.”

“You to witcher.”

Jerome hands him the package to put in their bag as usual; Dettlaff acting like the mule while Jerome does the talking. He is mostly silent himself, marketplace or no, and when they’d traveled the man broke up the monotony with mostly one-sided conversation or singing. The longest single conversations he’d ever had was with Dalia, who shared his enthusiasm for automatons. He was content to let words wash over him as he and his friend perused the stalls, and after an hour Jerome noticed him starting to flag. He bumped shoulders with the vampire companionably, and they started to make their way back, having to stop as people rushed past. Dettlaff watched them go, puzzled.

“Where’s the fire?” Muttered Jerome.

Dettlaff was curious too, and more and more people were running past them as they made their way back to his tenement. It wasn't long before the heavy smell of smoke assaulted their noses, and they looked at each other in alarm before dashing off in the same direction that everyone else was running. He can feel his slow-beating heart stop when they round the corner.

It was a fire.

His shop  _ was on fire. _

He feels sick as he stares with an open mouth at the flames licking up the wood; all the painstaking decorations he’d painted on turning black, the sign he’d carved becoming so much charcoal. He jerks out of it as Jerome shoves through the crowd, yelling for Dalia and Tasar, and his heart resumes beating, galloping painfully in his chest as he follows in his wake, searching frantically. He grabs one gawking onlooker to scream in his face.

“Halfling female and a male elf, did they get out?”

“N-n-no, no one-!”

He shoved the man away, running to the alley behind the house because the main floor was already in flames, the doorway a wall of fire that a witcher or even a vampire couldn't walk through. Jerome is already in the alley, helpless to do anything because he can't jump high enough to reach the second-story window. Dettlaff can though, and he flicks his gaze around to make sure there are no witnesses before he mists up the wall. His instincts shrill at him to get away from the one thing that can truly hurt him, but he ignores them to frantically look for his two friends. His eyes water as he slinks close to the floor where there's less smoke, and finds Dalia first, the poor woman unconscious and-his nostrils flare in alarm-bleeding. He carries her out, hopping to the cobbles below to hand her to Jerome before going back in. Tasar is harder to find, and he can’t hear or smell anything over the roar of the flames below and the stench of smoke. He does finally find him under the mess of his destroyed workroom, covered in blood, and gathers the limp form in his arms.

In the alley below Dalia is already stirring weakly in Jerome’s arms, her and his eyes focusing on him and Tasar in his arms. He gently sets him down, and now he’s faced with a face that's so bloody it doesn't even look like him,  _ beaten, he’s been beaten, he- _

There’s no pulse under his fingertip, no breath-

His hand is hovering, worse than useless, claws growing as the edges of his vision blur-

_ Monster- _

He looks at Dalia and Jerome to see her mouth drop and her eyes widen with fear, fear of  _ him- _

_ Monster- _

That self-same hand curls in, claws biting into the palm, and the old rage swelling up from the pit it’d been born in, slick with gore and rot and-

_ Monster- _

* * *

  
  


The cut he makes is quick and clean, and it takes but a moment to gather the blood from the shallow cut across his friend’s palm. The cut has already begun to sluggishly close by the time he’s capped the vial but he cleans it anyway for want of something to do with his hands. Regis’ hands shake as he does it, and he swallows hard. The emotions coming off Dettlaff in waves are horrible to feel, even if only second hand; so much  _ worse _ than the nightmares he usually feels disturbing his friend’s sleep. Even as deep under as he is, his more bestial state is struggling to take shape, the inch-long claws scratching his hand as he holds Dettlaff’s, trying in his meager way to comfort him. He looks up at the tortured face, the mouth open in a soundless scream, fangs trying to form. The eyes are closed, so he can’t see if they’ve turned silver, but he can see the tears trickling from the corners and his heart clenches.

Maybe this is less horrible than literal torture, maybe it’s  _ safer _ , but it doesn't feel like it’s the  _ better  _ option. Logic is cold comfort when he can feel grief and anger thrash its way through him.

“It’ll be over soon,” He soothes helplessly, carding fingers through Dettlaff’s hair “Just hold on until it wears off, just hold on.”

“Hold on.”

* * *

He tastes ash in his mouth.

The smell of fires had been lingering in the air for weeks. Every two or three days the news would come of another house being torched, another pyre. Another  _ body. _

The guards were useless. Either they didn't care, or they were in on it. Human despisement for elves and dwarves had always been an ever-present thing in the city; though previously in less... _ overt _ ways. Trade deals that had been available suddenly...not being so if you were an elf. Houses for sale in nice areas being ‘reserved’ by an unnamed buyer when approached by a dwarf. Small things, little things. Things that were technically legal because actual discrimination  _ was,  _ by order of the king. He, on all accounts, was a decent fellow that thought of nonhumans as actual people because he’d served in the trenches of the last war beside them. Nothing forged bonds like crawling through mud churned by hooves and watered with blood. But his influence was waning as he aged and turned most of the day-to-day things over to his son, who was a young man that had little interest in non-humanitarian endeavors. Money-and how much of it he could get-was more of a concern to him. He’d never have to walk through the fires of hell with troops where the shape of your ears and your stature mattered so little in the grand scheme of things.  _ He’d  _ never hear of how the dwarven axeman that saved your life in the campaigns was unable to buy a home in the city of his birth for love nor money.

These are all things that he has heard in passing, from the mouths of his neighbors. He’d never endure it himself because the irony of it all was that he superficially passed for human if he sheathed his claws. Even Jerome-who was technically human, even if he’d scoff at the categorization-had people spit on the ground at his passing, making little comments. It was a strange sort of dissonance, where he could only listen to grievances; he did not have the right to air his own. There was also the insurmountable barrier of knowing he was a minority among minorities because no elf nor dwarf would ever accept a vampire. Even Dalia hadn't known what he was.

Well, hadn't.

He didn't remember much after...after finding Tasar. But he remembers the shock and terror in her eyes just before his own had clouded over with red. 

He doesn't even remember that until he’s been awake for an hour, slowly coming to with a cool cloth pressed to his forehead. Jerome is holding it and looking...he doesn't recognize the expression.

“Did I-” He swallows, tries again. “Did anyone...?”

“No.” He says quietly. “I was able to drag you out before anyone-before anyone  _ else  _ noticed.”

He swallows. Hard. 

He’d failed. He’d failed at his control right when it was needed most; when Dalia could have used a pair of arms to hold her, or Jerome needed someone to weep for him because the mutations had stripped him of it. When  _ he  _ needed to curl up and just weep over the loss while he tried not to taste ash and blood at the back of his throat. 

_ One step forward, two steps back- _

He very nearly  _ does _ just curl up and lose himself to grief, but he’s lost himself once already today. He forces himself to calm-using the witcher techniques Jerome had taught him-shoving the pain and grief away. It took him a while; he’d last meditated months ago and he was out of practice. It had been nearly two years since he’d even sprouted claws by accident in public; he thought he was past his...attacks. He feels sick by the end of it, the strain of his too-intense emotions being repressed translating into nausea. He releases a breath at the end of it, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“...Sorry.” He murmurs.

Jerome is silent a long while, staring into the middle distance. “...nothing to be sorry for.”

There is, but it’s useless to argue the point. “Is Dalia okay?”

“Didn’t have time to check.” He says, voice monotone. 

They’re silent for a while; then Jerome stands. “Come on.”

They make their way back into town, and Dettlaff lets himself cave to the excuse of digging through rubble for anything that survived while Jerome leaves to go to the hospital to find Dalia. Everything is wet, his neighbors dousing the fire so it wouldn't spread, and the ash clings in thick layers to his boots. He has to sit and shudder his way through three attacks, pressing his clawed hands to his chest and curling over them, gritting his teeth until it passes. The worst is when he comes upon the once beautiful automata of a swan, the one that Dalia had made. He was the one that made the majority of their stock, but she was the one with the creative bent, her skills as good as his own, even if not as celebrated simply because of her race. He cradles the soot-stained, half melted-glass creation, feeling pain scrabbling at the back of his throat trying to get out. 

He staggers out the back, looking around with dread for the body of Tasar, but it has already been carted off. The only thing left is a smear of blood, and he shudders and tries not to vomit. He will force himself to find him at the morgue, to take his body and wrap it in white samite as his kind’s death requires, and as the ties of friendship calls for. Being a vampire he’s unprepared for death; his kind does not die. He only knows of it in the abstract, and he feels that it hasn't really hit him yet. The sense of it sits hunched over the horizon like a slavering beast, breath hot on his neck, but not sinking its teeth in yet. The only thing that’s staving it off is useless busywork and white-knuckled clinging to the kind of quiet place he reached in meditation. His control is slipping though; his claws won’t fully sheath and he can feel the points of his canines pricking his tongue. 

He’s not sure how long he’d been sitting curled in a corner, struggling to find that quiet place when he hears boots crunch over the rubble. Over the stink of charcoal he can smell the faint bitter, acrid smell of the witcher, and watches as he approaches; trodding carelessly over burnt wood and burnt memories alike, the twisted glass swan shattering under a boot heel. He still has that flat expression, so at odds with his usual animated face. The eyes glow faintly in the gloom, and it’s then he realizes that dusk had fallen quiet and slow without him noticing. 

“How is she?” He manages to rasp.

“Alive.” He grunts.

If ‘ _ alive’  _ is the best he can offer, then...he swallows. “Did she...did she-” He’s not sure how to even  _ ask _ .

“She knows.” He paused. “Maybe not what, exactly, you are. But she knows the shape of it.”

He covers his face with shaking hands and struggles to breathe. “Could I...in the hospital-”

Jerome doesn't say anything for a while. “...Probably doesn't want visitors.”

He doesn't specify that she doesn't want a visit from one person in  _ particular _ , but he can guess. He hisses and tries to pull his claws in, even though it’s a useless task. Jerome crouches down in front of him, strange fae eyes looking more unearthly in the deepening gloom.

“Let them out.” He says, his voice eerily sibilant. 

Dettlaff lowers his hands to look at him, confused.

“You’re going to need them.”

Then he stands and walks away; no further explanation forthcoming. He follows the witcher and lets his claws out, feeling that no further explanation was needed. After all, there's only one reason that he would need them for. He walks out of his shop and out of the tame and gentle life of Drosselmeyer, and back into that little bloody place that he’d never  _ really  _ left. The charnel-house that left him with disturbing dreams and the kind of anger that simmered below the surface, ever-present. The kind of place that made him hungry for blood in ways that had nothing to do with the taste.

* * *

_ “Come, let's drain them-” _

_ “Ah, but the babes are only a mouthful-” _

_ “They’re sweeter by half than the adults-” _

_ Blood and thirst and- _

_ Laughter- _

Regis shudders awake.

He swallows, and tries not to dwell on the subject of his dreams; the callous cruelty of them, the childish disregard for the screams and whimpers of the people that had suffered for his adolescent whims. He’d never tried to kill them, but he didn't go out of his way to care for their safety either. There had been deaths. In his ignorance, they were nothing more than a source of blood, not  _ people.  _ It’s only after his eyes are opened by his mentor that the full implications of what he’d  _ done  _ had hit him, and it had taken him the next handful of decades to make him into the kind of better person that would never dwell in ignorance again.

He takes a few deep, calming breaths to pull away from the dreams, and now that he’s fully awake he realizes that the horrible bent that they’d taken was due to outside influence. He could feel the waves of uneasy sleep that were coming from Dettlaff and sighed. 

He got to his feet and walked to his friend’s bedside, looking down at him. Dettlaff had always suffered uneasy sleep; something to do with the connection he had to lesser vampires he was sure of but...well, he wasn't exactly normal on the mental side of things either. He couldn't count the number of times he’d been pulled from sleep by the man’s uneasy rest bleeding into his own unconsciousness through the bond. Regis pulled up a chair to sit next to him so he could take the man’s hand in his own. Touch sometimes helped, and he settled into as comfortable a position as he could manage in the hopes that once Dettlaff did drift back into calmer sleep that he would be able to doze as well in the hopes he’d be well-rested enough by the time Geralt came back from his wight hunt.

He waited and did his best to ignore the bird’s pre-dawn chorus and the exhaustion deep in his bones.

* * *

Jerome tapped his hand to get his attention.

He turned to look in the direction the witcher was pointing. Two men were walking along, no different from thousands of other men he’d seen, but one was limping slowly along, on crutches, his knee firmly wrapped. He seems to be in great pain, having to lean on his fellow at times. They followed at a discreet distance, Jerome walking cat-footed while he took on his mist form and slinked from shadow to shadow. 

The two didn't really seem aware he was being followed, or that he would have reason to be. They didn't even look back before entering a large church of some god or another, one amongst many. It was one of the older buildings, ramshackle and tilted; the only thing new about it was the painted emblem of a new religion that had recently cropped up, the yellow of the crudely-drawn flame dingy in the low light. They stop in a doorway across the street, and he flexes his claws slowly.

“Is this it?” He snarls, eager.

Jerome just nods and hefts the rope and jug of lamp oil he’d brought, setting them down. He hadn’t explained what they were for when he’d taken them from the shipyards, just shrugging when Dettlaff had asked.

“Then what are we waiting for?” He hissed. “I could go in, have them all dead in seconds.”

“We’ll wait until they’re asleep.”

Dettlaff scoffed. “I can kill them all before they even raise the alarm.”

Jerome ignores him to crouch down, hands folded in front of his face to watch like a cat watches a bolthole, for all intents and purposes content to wait. He’s not content to idle away the hours, blood running hot and angry, and snarls irritably at him before taking a step forward. 

He hisses in surprise when the witcher kicks the side of his knee brutally, pain flaring up for an instant. Before he could react he’s on the ground, silver glinting in the faint light at his throat. Jerome’s above him, and he freezes, shocked.

“You’ll  _ wait _ you damned unhinged animal,” He hissed lowly “Even if I have to pin you here with the fucking silver sword,  _ got it?” _

He opens his mouth to-he’s not even sure what was even going to  _ say _ ; but he doesn't get the chance because Jerome presses the flat of the blade to his chin. He lets the silver linger there, heating his skin with the threat of it. 

“Anger,” Jerome drawls, almost  _ conversationally _ , and it's disturbing how calm it is “Is all you have, you fucked-up bastard. What you lack is  _ creativity.  _ Well, that and the patience not to shoot off two minutes in. _ ” _

“Now,” He pulls the blade away a fraction of an inch, “Are you gonna wait, or I gotta scruff you again like the rabid fucking dog you are?”

It  _ stings,  _ that little callback to earlier, when he’d blacked out when he’d been needed most, makes his face heat with shame. He swallows, and looks away.

“That’s a good boy.” He says sardonically, and in a blink he’s up and back in his crouch, hunched and waiting.

Dettlaff pulls himself up and settles in next to him but at a distance, the fire in his blood doused for now. 

The night wears on. Dusk passes, and candles glow in a handful of windows, more people come in. The wind changes and he can smell that some of them stink of smoke and death, commingled with the tang of alcohol. They are laughing softly amongst themselves, clapping each other on the back, faces lit with pleasure. He half-expects some evil to be obvious in their faces, but there is nothing. They could be any group of drunkards returning from the tavern, and their seeming...normalcy is so at odds with the nature of their acts that it pains him to see it. He even recognizes one; he’d come into his shop earlier this week, purchasing a toy from Dalia. There had been no hint. No suggestion of his intent. 

His worldview is a simple, uncomplicated one. He does not understand the dissociation that a person could possess that they could see their neighbors every day, speak to them to purchase a carved horse for their child from Dalia, then the same day turns around and beat her and leave her to die in a burning house. 

The small group fumbles with the door and after dropping the keys a few times, they enter. He can hear them stumble about briefly, and after an hour everything is quiet again. The candles snuff out one by one. Beds creak, then settle.

Silence.

It’s then that Jerome rolls out of his crouch, cracking his neck. He takes the jug and hands the rope to Dettlaff. He’s still unsure what he brought them for, but he follows meekly as he pushes aside the shutters to one of the ground floor windows and climbs in. They look around, and they seem to have climbed into one of the many extra rooms of the church. It apparently has living spaces like a cloister, as well as being a place of worship, as this room has beds. Occupied with...children.

He freezes. He was not expecting children in this den of vipers. Only evil people that deserved what was coming to them. He stares, confused, then looks to Jerome. He seemed unfazed, and he realized that he  _ knew.  _

“What,” He whispers “What do we...do with them?”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Jerome takes the rope. “You stay with them. I’ll come to get you when I’m done.”

Dettlaff nearly bared his teeth and hissed about being left behind to babysit, Jerome gave him that  _ look  _ again; that slightly mad-eyed look that he’d had when holding a silver blade to his throat. For a moment-just a moment-he thinks he sees what others see when they shrink from him and spit, stinking of fear. 

“Keep them calm.” He hisses. “No matter what happens.”

Then he’s gone, breezing through the door like a breath of smoke himself. Sometimes he wonders if there are higher vampire genes introduced in the trials, but now is not the time to mull over that. He stays here, long claws hanging uselessly instead of sinking them into the hearts of these murderers, pacing back and forth.

It’s quiet for a while, then the sounds of feet. Always a small group, in twos or threes. Sometimes dragging. He peeks through the keyhole and he can see people walk past, the blank look of a person under the influence of axii on their faces. He hisses under his breath in frustration.  _ What the hell is he doing?  _

He wasn't going to get an answer looking through keyholes so he resumed his pacing, keeping one eye on the children. They’re all ten or younger, sleeping the kind of heavy sleep only young children are capable of. Having had only restless sleep since...well, since he’d been given reason to have restless sleep. He envies them. Watching them, he feels a small measure of calm himself, allowing his claws to retract at last. His face is still more angular than it should be, but enough to pass cursory inspection in the gloom if the children should wake. 

One of them does, at the sound of a thump and a muffled scream. One glance through the keyhole sees a man being dragged by Jerome, squirming against his bonds and the gag. Axii doesn't work on everyone, though he would have thought everyone in this cult was soft enough in the head to be dominated by it. When he looks back at a soft noise, one child is up, knuckling at her eyes and yawning. She blinks blearily around-doubtless unsure what she’d even been woken by-before freezing when she sees his crouched shape. She clutches the blanket close, eyes going wide with alarm.

“It’s alright, little one.” He soothes, voice just barely audible. “I won’t hurt you. Just...checking on you and the rest.”

She doesn't look at  _ all  _ reassured, so he tries again. “Do you need anything? A stuffed animal? A drink?”

She stares at him silently as young children are wont to do when faced with a stranger. Long minutes stretch before she finally speaks. “M’ mommy.”

He’s fluent in child speak, and replies. “She’s...asleep right now.” 

Probably. If Jerome hasn't found her yet. He feels...uncomfortable at the thought that this child’s mother is one of the cultists slated for slaughter tonight. All of his eagerness for murder is being encroached upon with unease.

“I want m’ mommy.” She repeats, getting more anxious.

Another child wakes, looking around with a kind of fearful alertness that he recognizes. He approaches, grabbing a stuffed toy along the way. “Nightmare?”

The child-a boy-nods. He’s slightly older than the girl; old enough to at least communicate in complete sentences. “W-who are you?”

“A friend.” He is always a friend to children. Any race, any age; until they grew old enough to realize that there was something...off about him. 

He approaches carefully, not looking either in the eye as one does with scared dogs and small children, and makes an offering of the stuffed...he thinks it may have been a bird, at some point. The boy, nonetheless, tentatively accepts it. He holds it like a shield to his chest, watching him warily. 

“Are you...are you reverend Martin’s friend?”

He has heard this man, his voice echoing like thunder in the tiny confines of the dilapidated building that they’d appropriated for their uses. It’s on the edge of the nonhuman district where he lives, and he’s walked past it and had seen this insular group, heard their sermons trickling out the windows. This man had seemed to hold some unsettling sway over his tiny flock, voice strident and commanding, larger than life. He has never given this place-or that man-much thought, but even before this had come about he’d not liked the man nor his followers. The reverend was not overly fond of nonhumans, or those that  _ looked  _ human but chose to associate with elves, halflings, and witchers.

“No.” He says decisively. “I’m the tinkerer that makes toys. Children are my friends.”

“You make dollies.” The little girl states, in an excited, hushed whisper.

“Yes, and-”

There’s a noise outside the door, a loud blast, and some jumble of muffled voices, no defined words. It sounds like twenty or so, probably all of the adults of this tiny cult. He quickly glanced through the keyhole and he can see all of the candles are blazing in the nave and can see the pews have been blown aside to clear an area. The congregation is in the middle, tightly roped to one another, all of them gagged. All of them now out from under the influence of axii and finding themselves in such a position thrashing against their bonds, trying to yell past their gags. 

“Ah…” He jerks back to the children who, with how loud that noise had been, were all starting to wake. He feels a tiny flutter of panic because whatever Jerome has planned can’t be anything good and these children will likely be able to  _ hear  _ it.

The little girl seems to not care in the least about the noise. “Singing dollies?”

“Yes.” That gives him an idea, some way of covering up the noise. “Would you...like to hear some of the lullabies they play?”

She nods eagerly, and the other sleepy-eyed children focus their confused gazes on him, and he racks his mind for a tune, but the one that keeps springing to mind gives him a cold shudder. He has no other option though.

“Wolves asleep amidst the trees-”

_ “Tonight,”  _ And that was Jerome’s voice, ringing out; and Dettlaff is further confused. Why is he-?

“Bats all a swaying in the breeze-”

_ “My sermon is on... _ **_inspiration_ ** _.”  _

He glances out the keyhole and can see the witcher at the pulpit, the jug of lamp oil sitting on it, next to a half-empty bottle of strong spirits. Jerome takes a generous swig, and continues on.

“But one soul lies anxious wide awake-”

_ “For instance, how one can find inspiration in the most  _ unexpected  _ places.” _ A pause-probably for another drink- _ just what the hell are you doing Jerome? _

“Fearing no manner of ghouls, hags and wraiths-”

_ “See, I’ve walked past this place of... _ worship _ many times, and never given it a thought. Not a one.” _

“For your dolly, Polly, sleep has flown-”

_ “I’ve heard the sermons; the 10-crown word equivalent of masturbation of how  _ naughty  _ those unbelievers were, how much they’ll suffer for the gall of not prostrating themselves at the reverend’s feet for the honor of sucking his cock-or well, offering their children the honor-” _

He continues to sing, having to get louder as Jerome’s speech becomes more and more strident, taking on a cadence and volume that sounds eerily similar to previous lectures he’d heard. 

_ “-But, you know, there's something just so  _ appealing _ about all that talk of punishment. Not usually my thing, but...I’ll make an exception. For such an  _ exceptional  _ group of people _ . _ ”  _

“Don't dare let her tremble alone-”

_ “I mean, it must take a lot of coin to cover the cost of all that lamp oil. But you managed to raise enough money from ‘donations’ from pockets and tills. And those blackjacks too; but those were just given to you by your friend Arndell in the guard, only gently used. You convinced him to give them to you for free, what a deal. Oh don’t worry, your secret’s safe, I’m not talking. And neither is he.” _

“For the witcher, heartless, cold-”

_ “But the most inspiring is just how you are able to dissociate. You see a living, breathing, begging person, and nothing but how inconvenient it is that a fresh corpse doesn't burn well.” _

“Paid in coin of gold-”

_ “So, I’ve got a few ideas for improvement. One, put the lamp oil right on the body-”  _ The muffled voices become more frantic, and he can hear splashing. Dettlaff can feel dread crawl its way across the back of his neck, and he does not turn to look.

“He comes he'll go leave naught behind-”

_ “And two: don’t bother killing them first.” _

“But heartache and woe-”

He jumps as he hears the familiar  _ whump  _ of air that a blast of igni has, and the muffled voices rise as muffled  _ screams,  _ and he struggles for his voice not to quaver over the next line of verse.

“...Deep, deep, woe.”


	8. Doing the wight thing

* * *

Geralt was glad that he’d brought an extra blanket in his camping gear; he’d had to spend the night out in the wilds since by the time he’d gotten to the house night had fallen. He pulled it out and wrapped it around the shaking, emaciated shoulders of the poor woman who’d been trapped in the body of the wight. She was frighteningly light, and even with it, she shivered in the early morning air. She shakily asked for food, and he hesitantly gave her some bread, hoping that she would be able to stomach it. He has to wonder just how annoyed Regis is going to be at having yet  _ another  _ patient, but he doubts the soft-hearted vampire will do anything other than grouse for all of two seconds before fussing over her. Still, he’d have his hands full. He hopes that BB is up to the task of acting as an extra pair of hands to the doctor; he could use them with how his estate was slowly being converted into an impromptu hospital.

He carries her to Roach while she tears into the bread. He tells her to slow down, but he’s not sure if she’s capable of forcing herself to take her time. By the time he has her on Roach’s back the entire loaf is gone, and he’s saved from refusing to give her anything else until she sees someone that knows how to nurse someone that hasn't eaten in a hundred years back to health by her almost immediately falling asleep. He’s lucky this time around with no drowners nor bandits on the roads, and he’s back in good time just after midday. BB greets him, and almost immediately she’s set at the table with water and some soaked oats. Basil hurries off for the cook before he goes home for the day, and is thankfully able to get the man to start some goose gelatin-with  _ strict  _ instructions on how to finish it, Geralt has to wonder just how bad BB is at cooking-and he listens to her tell her tale in between bites. 

It’s very classic as curses go; a beggar, an oath made and a punishment enacted. It’s like something straight out of an old tale from Vesemir. The only difference is the cold shiver this one gives him.

“-and the beggar was some kind of mirror merchant. Something about him just made me uneasy _. _ I didn't want him anywhere near me or my house so I threatened to sick my hounds on him if he didn’t leave-”

He feels that Marlene was lucky,  _ very  _ lucky that she didn't end up even worse off. He swallows and tries not to let on just what he was feeling, but she’s too busy eating the soaked oats to pay him any mind. He leaves her to it after the tale is finished to check on Regis.

As soon as he pushes aside the door, he can tell something is...well, not  _ wrong,  _ per se, but that it’s not exactly  _ right _ either. Regis is unaware of his approach until he’s opened the door, and for a creature that has as good of hearing as a witcher, that’s not a good sign. Neither is Regis surreptitiously wiping at his eyes before looking him in the face. He gives Geralt a wavering smile, and it’s a patently bad attempt at covering up his distress. He doesn't even try to talk around it.

“What is it?” He says, trying to go for ‘gentle’. He doesn't exactly succeed, not with a gravelly voice like his, but hey, it’s the thought that counts?

Regis’ mouth trembles, trying to deflect, but he gives up almost immediately. “...He’s been having nightmares.”

Geralt steps in close to put a hand on his friend’s shoulder comfortingly. “It’s that bad then?”

“You were not exaggerating with how you felt during your own experience.” Regis sighed. “It...truly is horrible. Even now it lingers.”

Seeing as how remembering relieving witcher trials interspersed with the kind of trippy nonsense that weed oil gave was a truly harrowing experience that Geralt would never want to have a repeat of, he can sympathize with the unconscious vampire.

“When do you think it’ll wear off?”

“In another hour, I think. Then I’ll put him back into a state of estivation with opium.” Regis says, stroking his thumb over Dettlaff’s hand. An attempt to comfort, but he doubts the man can appreciate it.

“Time enough for you to eat then.” Geralt tugs at his friend’s elbow. 

“I can’t just-”

“Regis, is there  _ really  _ any benefit to you staying here and suffering along with him?”  _ Other than assuaging your guilt about doing this to him?  _ Geralt adds in his own head. He knows better than to be that blunt out loud. 

The vampire swallowed, and eventually shook his head.

“C’mon then.” Geralt gently pulls him away. “I know you haven't eaten since I’ve left; besides, I want to introduce you to someone.”

Regis is reluctantly led away, intrigued despite himself, and just now realizing he’s starving. He feels guilty about feeling relief as the crushing weight of his friend’s mental state is somewhat lifted with some distance between them, but he truly can’t do anything until the oil has worn off. He can only do what Geralt is urging him to do now: to take care of himself so he won’t exhaust himself caring for Dettlaff. Just because he had far more endurance to withstand caregiver burnout didn't make him immune to it. 

He seats himself at the table, and Basil sets down some hearty stew and crusty bread in front of him. The waves of emotion of his friend made him shaky and slightly nauseous, but he’s so very hungry under it so he’s able to eat a bowlful by going slowly. Geralt lets him eat and stuffs himself as well, and once all of them are fed and watered he makes a round of introductions. Lady Trastamara is weak and frail but she’s quite able to answer questions about the state of her health as Regis gives her a quick exam. Geralt watched Regis as he did, noting the way he seemed to look a little less wearied by the simple task of evaluating Marlene. Her gratitude was like a balm to the vampire, and he even managed to laugh a little about her light joke that he shouldn't fuss over her, she wasn't ‘some decrepit old lady, despite appearances to the contrary’. 

He concludes that under the circumstances she’s in comparatively good health and needs nothing other than bland food and rest. BB will probably be able to take care of her by himself, no assistance from Regis needed. As soon as the doctor gives his verdict, Basil helps her to the servant’s quarters so she can rest, as every bed in the main building is taken. Geralt watches her go, damn glad he’d managed to break the curse, and turns back to see Regis smiling knowingly at him.

“Soft heart.” Regis teases fondly.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t see you complaining about when it stopped me from taking your head as a trophy.”

“I would never complain of such my dear friend. Rib you endlessly for it? Oh, every day.” He grinned widely at him.

Geralt snorts, amused, before sobering. “Feel better?”

Regis nods, still looking a little depressed but somewhat recovered. “Yes, and time for the poppy milk, I think. He will be able to heal far faster without such horrid dreams.”

“Uh, hate to ask but were you able to…?”

“Yes, I was. And you?”

He held up the vial-full of viscous green fluid-as testament. “How long will brewing take, you think?”

“Hours.” Regis groaned. “You have to add the wight saliva a drop at a time every hour, and reserve some of the liquid to temper the blood so it doesn't curdle or destroy the delicate hormones in it...needless to say, it’s a tedious process.  _ And _ that herbalist hasn't returned with the other ingredients yet.”

Geralt winced in sympathy. “So, it’s going to take all day tomorrow?”

“Oh, very likely. You can imagine I’m not looking forward to any of this.”

“Hey, I’m looking forward even less to  _ drinking  _ it. Wight saliva, vampire blood, and hand broth? One hell of a cocktail.” Geralt shuddered. “You better have more of that mandrake hooch ready to wash that taste out of my mouth.”

“My apologies Geralt. I only brought one. Perhaps some...” He filches a bottle from the cupboard on the way back to the patient’s room, “Est-Est?”

“That is not going to be  _ nearly  _ strong enough.”

“I have more potent alcohol in my medical supplies if that’s more your taste. Or, lack thereof.”

“I’ll be lacking probably my sense of taste  _ and _ smell after that shit, are you kidding?”

“Vodka it is then!” Regis agreed cheerfully.

Geralt chuckled as he followed him in, and then felt like he’d been tricked by being distracted enough that he’s roped into helping Regis with bandage changes. Well, at least he’s learning about treating severe acid burns if he ever gets spat on bad enough by a wyvern. He hopes he’ll never have to put it into use on himself, the sight of Regis’ first patient makes him hope he’ll never experience even a third of what happened to this guy. At least he seems to be recovering a little, having already started to-as Regis put it-’plump up’, and he’s already starting to grow back small patches of flesh. He has to wonder just what horrible crap the guy was marinating in for it to be this bad in the first place though. 

“You ever get a chance to look over the alchemist’s notes?” Geralt asks idly as he puts the blue mold on the bandage.

“Don’t forget the yarrow,” Regis says distractedly. 

He’s closely monitoring Dettlaff, patting his hair in an absent-minded way. Geralt assumes he’s trying to focus on sensing the vampire’s mental state, to make sure the poppy milk is doing its job of sending Dettlaff back into his...estate-whatever. Well, he  _ could  _ just be petting the guy’s hair for exactly the reason it looks like, but he’s not going to antagonize the doctor right now. It’d be a bit cruel with how stressed he was over how much of a mess-physically  _ and  _ mentally-Dettlaff was right now. 

Finally, Regis’ shoulders droop with relief and he answers. “Sorry my friend, I’ve only had the chance to glance over them.”

Geralt shrugged. “Just thought you might find something useful in them to help with this poor bastard.”

“So far, a steady supply of plasma, saline, and bandage changes seem to be working. What I do hope to find there is just what on earth that poor man was sitting in. Whatever it was, it smells...strangely familiar.”

Geralt gave him a confused look. “ _ Familiar?” _

“Yes, and for the life of me, I can't place what it is. It’s annoyed me to no end.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Well, might be some more of that back at the lab that you could examine. What do you make of the vial? Some kind of blood residue in it, couldn't place what kind.”

Regis is intrigued and takes the vial. He’d overlooked it before, assuming it was just a piece of jewelry that wasn't part of the things the witcher had picked up from the lab. He examines it, curious. It's a pretty thing, made from mother of pearl, delicately carved. It has an eagle face on one side, and a bat face on the other, and tiny cabochons for eyes of yellow and blue glass respectively. The glass top uncorks with some difficulty, and he takes a look. Well, a sniff.

“I…” He paused, and Geralt was treated with an expression he’d never seen on the vampire’s face: complete and utter bafflement. He wished he had a way of preserving it for posterity.

Regis sniffed the vial again, still looking confused. By the third sniff, Geralt spoke up. “Your sense of smell is better than mine Regis, and unless it’s changed to wine between one sniff and another it’s still blood. So what kind is it already?”

“Ah...vampiric.” 

“So….what? Fleder? Garkain?”

“A bit higher up the chain.”

“Bruxa then? C’mon Regis, do you really wanna play twenty questions.”

“No it’s...it’s Dettlaff’s.”

It took him a second for his brain to catch up, and then he was giving the vial a baffled look of his own.

“...What the hell is a vial of his blood doing in a 100-year-old alchemy lab?”

“I would rather like the answer to that question as well,” Regis said, looking disturbed. 

Geralt gives him a speculative look. “...There’s something you're not mentioning here.”

Regis worried his lower lip, trying to come up with a good way of saying it. “Ah...Geralt, have I ever mentioned our custom of cremating lost body parts?”

Geralt blinks slowly at him, thrown for a moment by the bizarre segue. “...No. Unless it got lost between vampire jokes and lectures on the nature of axiology. Which I  _ still _ don’t get, by the way.”

“What, the one about the lesbian-?”*

“God damn it, Regis, you know what I mean!” Geralt snaps, trying not to laugh.

Regis gives him a broad grin, before forcing himself to be serious. “Well, to expand on my earlier statement: it became a custom as a precaution, as we well know mages, alchemists, and the like would love to get their hands on samples to study us.”

“I’m guessing you're not interested in being willingly dissected.”

“Nor easy to capture for such purposes, though not impossible for a sufficiently determined magic-user. Thankfully we higher vampires have largely escaped notice by alchemists and mages with many of them disinclined to believe we are tangible creatures, rather than simply the subject of myths and bodice-ripping romances.” Regis paused at the last bit. “...Honestly, I have to wonder at the bizarre fetish you humans have for us. Downright disturbing, some of those-”

“Stay on topic Regis.”

“What I’m getting at is that to find vampire blood in the lab of an alchemist that did experiments on his own son and others besides is quite...concerning.” Regis tapped a nail on the vial. “And as worrying as that is, it’s equally as confounding as to how he even  _ got  _ such a sample.”

“For the second bit, you could just ask him when he wakes. The first is what you should really be worried about.” Geralt murmured. “I only listened to some of the megascope recordings, but some of it was…”

He didn't have a word for what fucked-up shit had been alluded to in those recordings and he really doesn't want to know the details, and he’s not going to try to describe it. “To give you the gist of it, he was trying to revert witcher mutations. Not sure where vampire blood comes into it though.”

Regis slowly looks from the vial to their human patient, currently recovering from a degree of damage that no human should be able to, and his frown deepened. “...I think I have an idea, Geralt.”

Geralt turned to regard the man too, and he could guess. “Do you think…? But what would be the  _ point?  _ He was trying to reverse mutations, not add new ones.”

Regis gave him a curious look. “New-? Do your mutations not have higher vampire components?”

Geralt frowned. “...Bruxa, sure, but not-”

“Hm, I wonder why-oh, well, I suppose it would be rather difficult to acquire them.” Regis mused. “Though I should be glad that you don’t; you witchers are quite terrifying enough without them already.”

“Oh, I don’t know, be nice not to bleed out from pitchfork wounds.” Geralt prodded at one of the puncture scars. “Though I don’t know if I’d like having a craving for blood. I drink enough weird shit as it is.”

Regis is of the opinion that blood is probably one of the least disgusting things he drank on a regular basis-he only knew  _ half  _ of what went into those witcher potions, and what he did made him gag-but he wasn't going to comment on it. 

“I shall have to take a look at these notes and at the lab. Would you be able to show me where it is?”

Geralt blinks, then slowly smiles. Regis knows that smile and doesn't like it one bit.

“You feel up to a swim?”

* * *

“You could...have  _ mentioned _ -nngh!-that the entrance-” 

Geralt turned to regard the doctor, amused that the vampire was doing nothing better than a rabid doggie paddle. Something about being a partly incorporeal creature created buoyancy issues, apparently. His body couldn't seem to decide between floating on the surface or sinking like a stone. He supposed it was easier keeping your body weight consistent on a solid surface, but the water seemed to mess with his senses to no end. 

“That-oh for  _ fucks sake!-” _

He supposes it helps that Regis can go without breathing for a damn long time without brain damage, but he guesses that swimming was not the man’s fondest pastime. Which was a pity, because it was suddenly Geralt’s. He could watch this sideshow for hours but they really don’t have the time for this, and eventually, he grabbed an arm to tow him along. Regis tries at first to ‘help’-mostly by flailing-before giving up and just letting Geralt tow his dead weight along. Geralt was used to swimming in full armor so one skinny vampire is no hardship, and they make it to the portal with no issues.

“I-” Regis shook himself off. “ _ Hate  _ swimming.”

Geralt grinned and whipped his hair about to get rid of most of the water and transferring it to Regis, to his great annoyance, before wringing out his hair and doing his best to get it out of his clothes. He still squelches a bit when he walks, but not much he can do about that. Thankfully the portal opens directly into the lab now so they don’t have to make their way through the damn traps. 

Geralt steps into the lab and Regis squelches along behind him, but this time he’s greeted to a surprise. “What the-it’s gone?”

It  _ is _ gone. That is, everything. Boxes. The megascope. The fucking iron maiden contraption.  _ Everything.  _

With a sense of dread, Geralt takes a look into the centipede tunnel, and yup, that’s been scoured too. The eggs have all been meticulously harvested, the adults lying in arched curves where they’d fallen, the stink of their blood is less than a day old. The plundering of the lab was very recent, sometime last night, and carried out by multiple people. He can smell at least ten different scents, one of them-to his irritation-that fucking cat witcher. At least he can take some grim satisfaction in the smell of healing herbs that were no doubt slathered on his crossbow bolt wound.

Regis waits at the tunnel entrance, giving him a curious look. “I have a feeling that there was rather more in this place besides a broken glass and burnt furniture?”

“A  _ lot  _ more.” Geralt growled, pissed. “This place was full of specialty equipment, custom-made.”

“Who would wish to raid an old lab devoted to the reversal of witcher mutations?”

“Doubt it’s for anything good.” He said, looking over the now empty lab. “The bastard that I met when I first came here said he was working for some alchemist.”

Regis is deeply worried by this turn of events. Perhaps he’s being paranoid and this mystery alchemist is only interested in witcher mutations or something else entirely, but being an alchemist himself he was all too aware of what trouble they may-literally-brew with it. Geralt looks nearly as frustrated as he is worried, a trip wasted with nothing left for them to look at. 

“Do you think you could describe what you found here?”

Geralt frowns and wanders over to where sad Albert's prettier cousin had been bolted to the floor, scuffing a boot over the marks. He does his best to describe what had been here, and while Regis cocks his head at Geralt’s strangely flat tone he doesn't comment on it.

(Maybe he’s okay coming back here because it’s important, but that doesn't mean he  _ likes  _ it-)

He’s in the middle of gesturing at the broken container that had held their first patient when Regis stooped down to sniff at the contents. He can smell it more strongly here, now that it’s not clinging as a residue on an oozing corpse. It’s that same sickly sweet smell, less diluted with the fluids of a decaying body. It...smells familiar. It smells like...well, he knows what it smells like but it can’t possibly be what he thinks it is, and it also doesn't smell quite right. It smells... _ off, _ in a way he’s hard-pressed to even describe. At a loss, he decides that he’ll need to find some way of purifying it. He pulls out a small vial and scrapes up the dried residue for later study. Standing, he addresses the empty room.

“Well,” Regis sighs, “It is a pity that everything was taken.”

At least he could hurry back to his patients then; despite them being stable enough for him to visit this place, he’s loath to leave them for too long. Besides, monsters tended to come out at dusk. He may be a higher vampire but he hates getting the stench of drowner or other beasts smeared on his clothing. Damned creatures never knew to let well enough alone.

He and Geralt towel off, and put dry clothes on. Again, he’s amused that the majordomo had managed to find yet another change of clothes in his size. He  _ had  _ brought a change of clothing-though it smelled like everything else did after such a long journey-but everything in his pack had ‘disappeared’ only to be found drying on a line later. Dressed and dry, they mounted up. Regis could have walked of course-and usually did, as most mounts save mules didn't much care for vampires-but Geralt wasn’t in a mood to amble back. Roach shifted uneasily, but thankfully did nothing more than that, letting the two men ride the short distance back to the estate.

“Do you have any leads on where or why the lab was raided?” Regis enquired, trying to keep his balance behind Geralt. It was difficult not to rock forward and get jabbed with all the silver studs on his armor.

“Not a damn clue.” The witcher sighed. “With the entrances covered with water, there's no tracks to follow. I could search the shore, but there’s too many other tracks from fishermen or others to be able to tell which one belongs to the bastards. Hell, they may have come up the river by boat for all I know.”

Regis is discomforted by how little they have to go on. “Perhaps you could ask some of the sorceresses to let us know if they should hear of an alchemist that’s come into the possession of such equipment?”

Geralt shrugged. “I guess we could try that. If the alchemist blabs about his research to other people in the field we’ll hopefully hear about it, but don’t hold your breath. Even if you don’t really need to breathe.”

“We do, actually, but I get your point. I suppose there’s nothing for it but to inquire through other channels and hope for the best.” Regis sighed, feeling resigned. 

He couldn't help but feel like they’d left behind a nest of smoldering coals, a threat of something ready to burst into flame. There was nothing for it though, and Regis could do little else but hope it wasn't something  _ too _ nefarious as he lay in bed that evening, trying not to think about it. 

The next day was off to a good start, his patients starting to look better and Dettlaff sleeping peacefully; undisturbed by dreams. He was staring down at him trying not to feel too horribly guilty when Geralt made his way in and dumped a parcel in his lap.

“Herbalist stopped by.” He said, by way of explanation. “Ready to do this?”

“Ready as you are to drink this horrid concoction.” He muttered, taking up the hand first-it was decidedly looking worse for wear-and removing a small sliver. “Immolate the rest for me, if you wouldn't mind?”

He took it with a grimace, ignoring the look on BB’s face as he walked through the house with a disembodied hand and fired a quick blast of igni at it in the backyard. It twitched at the first blast-making his stomach flip-and he blasted it a couple of times in quick succession until it was a greasy black smear in the dirt. He shuddered at the vision of the thing skittering about like a spider and kicked at the dirt until even the smear was gone. When he went back in he knew that Regis had seen the entire sideshow out the window by the amused look on his face. 

“...Just making sure.”

Regis smirked but didn't comment, turning his full attention to brewing the resonance. Geralt was delegated the other, less sensitive tasks like bandage changes for Dettlaff and-

“Gods, this guy already has  _ skin  _ in places.” Geralt is surprised; just what the hell had that alchemist  _ done  _ to this man?

Regis raises an eyebrow. “Really? That is impressive.” He paused. “...And unsettling.”

Geralt nodded, wondering just what was in store for him when this poor bastard was fully healed. Would he remember anything, or would brain damage prevent that? Hell, would it be a bad thing if he didn’t? Honestly, he’s sure  _ he  _ would choose not being able to remember the trial of the grasses if he could. Having experienced memory loss himself it wasn't the worst thing in the world, but that had just been magically-induced amnesia, not fucking brain damage from lack of oxygen. He just hopes that the guy will have enough left to be housebroken. 

He looks up from the first patient to Regis. He’s grinding away with his pestle, the potent acrid smell of bitter herbs filling the air. “How, uh...intact do you think he’ll be mentally?”

“Quite honestly my friend, I’m unsure just how well he’ll recover. We retain memories even in the face of total immolation, but you humans are far more corporal and therefore tied to your bodies.” He dumps the herbs into the bowl he has set up over the burner, adding some eye-watering spirits to it. Geralt feels the powerful urge to sneeze. “I would not be surprised if he will require the kind of care that patients that suffer from head injuries. Some of your igni please-?” He obliges, careful not to get too close to the bowl. It smells like the kind of alcohol that would catch on fire if you looked at it funny. “Ah, thank you.”

He sat back and frowned. “But he’s regrowing  _ skin  _ Regis; even I can’t do that. Whatever bits of brain he’s lost to-”

“Oh, I didn't say he would  _ always _ need that kind of care-merely that he may need it until he relearns what was lost.” He dropped in the sliver of tissue, and Geralt made a face at the way it twitched when it made contact with the simmering potion. “Depending on the severity, it may just be memories-things he remembers saying or doing, people’s names or even his own. Or it may be as severe as needing to relearn basic functions, like how to dress or even how to  _ walk. _ ” 

Geralt gives the first patient a wary look, afraid he may have bitten off more than he can chew. He is  _ not  _ interested in wiping some stranger’s ass for him. 

Regis notices and gives him a reassuring smile. “Relax Geralt, you are a landed vintner now! You can afford to hire a caretaker. There are plenty of older women that do just such things for those that can afford to have someone take care of an aging relative or similar.”

“I keep forgetting that.” He mutters. “Don’t have to do every damn thing myself now.”

“Yes, now you can just avail yourself of your staff and your ever-patient, long-suffering friend.” He chuckles, adding the wight spit. It goes from ‘herbal spirits’ to ‘morning kiss from a guy with rotten teeth’, and Geralt pulls a face.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I can take a hint, Regis. Would a new alchemy lab to tinker with make you feel better with putting up with this shit?”

He paused, tapping a finger to his chin in mock consideration. “Oh, I suppose.”

He snorted. “I’ll go see BB. I need to see to the repairs for this place apparently; guy says it’s been neglected for a while. May as well add a lab while I’m at it.”

“I will see you in a few hours or so. This will need to consistently simmer until it’s ready for the final component anyway.”

Geralt nods and gets to the busywork for the day. BB’s got a laundry list of things he needs, and he just shoves the sack of coin the duchess in his hands, amused at the way he splutters.

“That-ah, well, it will certainly cover quite a-”

“Killing vampires pays well I guess. Who knew.”

From the next room over he can hear Regis snort.

“Anyway, you still need more though?”

“Well, the alchemy lab you have in mind may cost quite a lot. I’ll enquire. For now, I believe we’ll have enough to at least make the main building more comfortable and put in an armor repair table.”

Oh, that he was especially looking forward to. It would be nice not to drag his ass to the main city to get his armor seen too. “Thanks, BB. I’ll go see if I can find some work.”

* * *

In Damien’s opinion, they rather underestimated the amount of destruction one enterprising witcher could inflict. The men under his employ had told him that Geralt had gone out to clear a cave full of bandits  _ by himself,  _ looking rather panicked by it. Having seen the way the man fought with the vampire he was less alarmed, but had gone out with a platoon of men to provide aid anyway. Not that it was needed, however.

“There are far easier, less messy ways of raising funds, Witcher.” He said, stepping over a disembodied arm.

“You’ve clearly never had to kill a zugal then.” The man said, casually wiping down his sword.

“Do I wish to know what manner of beast that is?”

“Lives in middens, eating trash. Looks like a land squid. Thing is, they don’t  _ leave  _ the middens; you have to go to them.”

“Ah. I suppose a cavern of unwashed bandits is leagues above that kind of work.”

“Pays better too.”

“May I ask why? I imagined that you would at least give yourself a well-deserved week of vacation from the path drinking that barrel of wine that the Duchess gifted you.”

“Same reason you aren't Damien.” Geralt gave him a knowing smile. 

He sighed. “No rest for the wicked?”

“Witchers and captains included.” He sheathed the sword. “To be honest, I’m out because that estate is going to be a money pit. Not that I’m ungrateful, but spackle and paint are more expensive than it has any right to be.”

“Fair enough. I would like to see it once it is finished; it would be an amusing diversion to see what a witcher estate looks like.”

“Well, I don’t have monster heads staked out on the fence but BB’s going to set up racks for my weapon and armor collection.”

Damien was intrigued, but any further pleasant conversation was forestalled with a loud booming noise and yelling. They both ran to the source of the noise, coming to the upper level. It was covered in a cloud of acrid smoke, with his men staggering about and coughing loudly. Geralt obliged him with a blast of wind to clear it, and he could see the remains of a crate smoldering in the center of it. He frowned at the smell of saltpeter and was glad that none of his men seemed badly hurt.

“Lamps only then, toss the torches. Don’t want this happening again; someone could lose an arm.” He pointed at the rest of the crates. “Make an inventory of everything here, I want to know what on earth these bastards have been up to.”

Geralt gives him a curious look. “I imagine the usual. Mugging people and smoking fisstech?”

“If only it were so.” He growled. “These are not the usual bandits. In the last two years, they have moved in, muscling out the usual tiny bands of ruffians that were like shooting fish in a barrel. They are  _ organized;  _ they have weapons better than the usual stolen farm implements, some of them even have armor. Just look at this cavern-”

He makes an expansive gesture. “They have bulwarks, traps, guards at the entrance in shifts. This is not some rabble living like feral cats in a cave, this place is a legitimate fortress that is well-cared for and defended.”

Geralt frowned, and he watched the witcher take it in. “...Good point.”

“What I wish to know is why they are here.” He stomped over to a crate. “And  _ why _ do all of these have... _ worthless junk in them!” _

He flips a crate top off to-of course-reveal bags of phosphorus, sewant mushrooms, candles- _ candles!- _ hop flowers, and some things he couldn't recognize. If it wasn't for the fact that these bastards were selling fisstech on the side and stealing this junk from local merchants he would have thought they were just unusually grubby merchants themselves looking to do trade in a rather creative, tax-avoiding way. 

“Are those...alchemy components?” Geralt said, peering over his shoulder. He looked confused. “Those are hardly worth anything.”

“And  _ candles.”  _ He says viciously. “Of course. Of all the nefarious things.”

The witcher picks up a clump of allspice root, frowning at it. “Any luck interrogating survivors?”

“None. They all know nothing other than their orders. Raid merchants, take everything, then put it neatly in boxes. The only pursuit I’ve had any luck in at all was finding information on their leaders. Each has a boss, each keeping a  _ diary _ if you can believe it.” He sniffed at just how ridiculous it was. “They all seem like unusually organized bandit bands that accumulate ridiculous amounts of junk for no apparent reason.”

“What do they even do with it?”

“I’ve no idea. I swear they just keep it for decoration.” He sighed in exasperation. “At the very least we can return most of it to the merchants that they stole it from.”

The witcher dug through the box, with a look on his face that went from baffled to contemplative. Damian watched him closely, feeling like the white-haired man was onto something, and let him gather his thoughts in silence as he looked at the bag of what he thinks is powdered metal of a sort.

“This is silver splinters.”

“Valuable, I suppose. Too valuable for bandits to be holding onto, not when there's alcohol to buy and wenches to disappoint. I suppose they could always steal or carry one off, but they only indulge on rare occasions. According to the reports one band rode into fox hollow for some fun-and by that I mean rape and pillage-but it’s been the only instance of such. Bandits are not known for restraint.”

“And they’re not known for stashing the ingredients for witcher bombs either.”

Damian paused. “... _ Come again?” _

“This,” Geralt indicates the box, “Has everything I’d need to make all of the bombs I know of, several fold over.”

“The kinds you had my men use on the vampire?”

“And some I’d never let civilians play with; they’re dangerous and need careful mixing.”

Damien thought this over. “Come, let's inspect the other boxes; but I have a feeling we’ve already hit on a theme.”

The other boxes were similarly stocked. Dozens of crates with enough material to make the kind of ordinance that would annihilate an army of nekkers, a baker's dozen of fiends, and most every monster that could be imagined. The most common was the components for a moon dust bomb; the kind they’d used on the vampire to prevent his transformation into smoke so he could not escape, but the witcher informed him it worked on other types of vampires and foglets that could make themselves appear invisible. It was twenty crates in all, and they both stared at the sheer number of gathered ordinance components. 

“What would they even  _ do  _ with all that?” Damian goggles at the lot, feeling a little overwhelmed.

“A lot of damage, that’s what.” Geralt says, grimly.

* * *

*What did the lesbian vampire say to her lover? 

“Same time next month?”


	9. Necessary Monsters

* * *

_ Warning: suicide attempt. _

Regis catches himself about to doze off again but at least this time he can start to add the final ingredient. He sighs heavily, glad that he’s in the home stretch at last. It had been a long and tedious day; though at least it was somewhat restful and the majordomo had done his best to keep him entertained. He was now up to ‘passable’ at Gwent, though he suspected he’d have to spend a good deal more than a day-or an eternity-to get better at the game. It helped him stay alert enough to keep to his brain-numbing task of adding a drop of weight saliva on the hour, every hour. 

Basil re-shuffled the cards while Regis got the blood ready. The majordomo was glancingly familiar with alchemy on account of his sister being a doctor, so he’d listened to Regis’ explanation. He hadn't given him many details, only that it was a brew to help with an investigation that the witcher was pursuing on his friend’s behalf. He could also vaguely see two people on truckle beds behind a screen and had been told Geralt had also brought them in for Regis to tend to as well. He is somewhat curious but not enough to ask more in-depth questions. He’s mostly just glad of the brief break from the duties of the estate. All the furniture had been set up, the kitchens stocked, and the repairmen sent for. Now he can enjoy some wine and food with Geralt’s doctor friend, who is a wonderful conversationalist. He can tell that the older gentleman is enjoying the diversion as well, even as tired as he obviously was. He may have to introduce himself to the new drink called coffee imported from Zerrikania sometime. At the very least he could refresh their glasses with cold mint tea while the doctor added the last ingredient to the brew. He watches with half an eye as the man pops the cork off a small vial filled with a viscous dark red liquid that was almost black in color.

He stops shuffling as he sees one of Regis’ patients stir. He-well, he thinks it's a he, he’s too wrapped in bandages to really tell-makes a low moan. “Oh, dear. Has the poppy milk worn off do you think?”

The doctor frowns. “It shouldn't have. Point of fact, he shouldn't be moving at all, nor have the ability to complain about his lot, but he’s a rather...unusual case.”

Regis stands and goes to check on the man, motioning for him to stay where he was. Which was fine by Basil, he had no wish to see the state of anyone that required full-body bandages. He was rather enjoying the cold-cut spread he’d set out for them; it would be a pity to waste it by being unable to finish it. 

Being distracted by a slice of cheese is probably why he didn't see the beginning of the bloodshed, but he certainly didn't miss the aftermath.

A yell of pain and surprise from the doctor made him drop everything and look to see a confused jumble of bandages and a spray of blood hitting the screen. “Regis, are you-”

“Stay there!” The doctor yelled.

“But-”

“STAY THERE!”

He hunches in on himself at the uncharacteristically loud and  _ guttural  _ yell, trying frantically to peer through the screen and see what was happening. Near as he could tell the doctor was trying to restrain one of his patients, the two forms indistinct blurs wrestling one another with the patient hanging like an anchor from Regis’ arm. The small space was a maelstrom of sheets and thrown bandages, and once-just once, so there and gone he’s not sure he saw it-a shine of two silver points like coins reflecting lamplight in the dark. A low hissing and pants of effort is the only noise as the older gentleman manages to pin the other form to the bed again. Basil clenches his fists, his instinct to help warring with his training from his sister to follow a doctor’s shouted orders. The worst of it seems to be over now though, with Regis using his belt to strap him to the bed.

“Basil,” to his relief, the doctor’s voice - while not completely steady - was relatively calm. “Get me more belts and straps. Strong ones. And thick cotton rope if you can find it.”

“Y-yes sir.” He hurries to obey, gathering what he can and ignoring the curious looks of the staff as he runs about. He attempts to enter, but Regis snaps at him to just toss it at him. He’s not sure why the doctor doesn't want him close to the patient, but he can imagine it was for his own safety. His sister once told him once that a patient suffering from fisstech withdrawal had nearly crushed her windpipe. 

He waits impatiently, twiddling his thumbs. After a moment, things seemed to have settled. “...Are you unharmed, my good doctor?”

“Nothing I won’t recover from.” The voice is light and jovial, but it’s strained.

He comes out from behind the screen, and Basil’s eyes widen. It looked like something had tried to take a chunk out of his arm, and their maw had been filled with icepicks. The wounds were deep and bloody.

“A change of shirt and a bowl of soapy water, if you would Basil.” He noticed his expression and gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s worse than it looks like my friend. I merely need to wash off...ah…the...”

The doctor blinked slowly, and to Basil’s alarm stumbled. He hurried to the man’s side, helping him stand. “I am unconvinced, my good sir! You are still bleeding horribly from that wound, it requires  _ stitches,  _ not merely a wash!” 

“I’m  _ still-?”  _ He gives the wound on his arm an incredulous look, like he’s surprised it hasn't conveniently stopped spurting blood on its own. To both of their alarm Regis blinks and shakes his head in what he can see is an attempt to shake off the dizziness. 

“Put me down Basil,” The older gentleman requests, his tone gone serious. “Slowly. And bring me some soapy water and my sewing kit.”

He does as asked, worried at how pale Regis has suddenly gone, beads of cold sweat on his forehead. Basil gathers the equipment and helps him cut away his sleeve and thoroughly cleanse the wound. Despite his request to do it for him, the man insists on stitching it up, and he watches with a deeply worried frown at the state of the doctor. He’s shaking and looking very ill by the end of it and accepts the glass of wine with the kind of tired grace of a man too under the weather to object to the majordomo holding it to his lips. He also allows him to wrap a bandage over it, starting in the middle of his tending to look at the solution bubbling away.

“The concoction-!”

“You are in no condition to tend to it. You cannot even stand!”

Regis tenses, clenching his jaw. “Can you...can you help me with the brew?”

“I...Ah, of course. I have helped my sister with some small things.”

Regis blew out a breath. “Very well. Follow my instructions to the letter. It can be fatal if it’s deviated from.”

Basil swallows hard, feeling nauseous himself and he hadn't even been bitten. “Yes sir.”

He follows the doctor's instructions, casting the man worried looks. He’s pale and sweating, obviously struggling not to give in and faint away. It’s a nail-biting half-hour, but by the end, the concoction hasn't burned and the Regis is looking somewhat recovered. At the behest of the doctor he brings it over for inspection, and the man announces it up to standards. 

“Are you feeling better?” He says, still worried.

“I will be, after a rest. Would you help me to my bed?”

He does so and sets him down on the bed. The doctor, after watching him put away the concoction in a small vial and assisted out of his soiled shirt, lays down and almost immediately falls asleep. Basil settles in next to him, watching him to make sure that he won’t...asphyxiate in his sleep or anything else. He twiddles his thumbs anxiously and hopes he’ll come up with a good way of telling the new lord of the estate that his friend got mauled by one of his patients and nearly passed out from blood loss. 

* * *

He felt like his arm was on fire.

He slowly opened his eyes, feeling like each lid was attached to lead weights. His chest, too, felt crushed under a lead weight, pinning him to the cold floor. He was sprawled out on the brick, his lower half still on the straw and furs that had been his bed for the last few...weeks? He couldn't remember.

Come to think of it, he couldn't remember a lot of things since being dragged here.

He must have thrashed his way out of his bed after the latest series of tests, and the cold floor felt good on his inflamed skin. He musters enough muscle control to press the crook of his arm more firmly to the stone, the chill of it feeling good on the black-and-blue bruise where the needle had gone in. There's a man watching him with the sort of look he’s seen before; that kind of animal terror that went past the horizon of gibbering back to a sort of eerie calm.

“You screamed more this time. Thought you’d die.”

“Might've.” He rasps. “Heart...stops sometimes during…”

He doesn’t have the strength to continue. His fellow prisoner let him trail off. 

“If you die,” He says slowly, “He’ll stop. All of this is for you. He’ll have no reason to continue. He’ll let us go. Or...or kill us. Either way, it’ll end.”

He knows. Jerome knows that these poor bastards are here because his father  _ needs  _ them; he needs normal people as a control in these experiments. He’s responsible for their fate in a way, because he is the reason that they are here at all, and feels guilty because of it.

_ All this suffering for one buggering, ugly fuckup. I’m not worth the pain of these poor bastards. _

“I tried.” He gasps. “He...took away…”

He’d had a knife in his boot. He’d used it. He’d almost succeeded, but towards the end of his vision going black, he’d heard screaming and crying, and had woken up later with his father's face looking down at him. He’d been pale and shaking with wet cheeks, yelling at him and entreating him to never do that again in turns. After that he’d had everything but a pair of shorts taken away. Now he didn't even have a blanket or pants to use as an impromptu noose.

“I could strangle you, if you want.” The man offered, eyes glittering.

Jerome rolls his head over to eye his hands, and they twitch, eager. “Done it before.” He rasps. “What I got put in jail for, before your da came by to pick us up.”

Ah, so at least he knew what he was doing. Asphyxiation wasn't the worst way to go, he’d even experienced a light version of it in a different context. If he had a choice - and he didn't, really - it was high on the list. 

He shuffled over, having to gasp like a landed fish every two feet. At this point he was having difficulty breathing on his own as it was; the guy might not even get a cramp in his hands. At the third pause, he takes a break to ask The Question.

“Who,” He gasps “And why.”

“The local lord. For raping my sister.”

He smiles. “Couldn’t...have happened...to a nicer...person.”

The other man makes a grim laugh, and he shuffles closer. “I’ll try to make it painless.” He says quietly. “No promises.”

Jerome shrugs. Not like it will matter, in the grand scheme of things, but it’s the thought that counts. His tether won’t let him get far, but maybe,  _ maybe,  _ if the guy stretches…

He stretches, Jerome strains. No dice.

They lay staring at each other after. “Sorry.” He rasps. The other man shrugs helplessly. 

They don’t get much time to chat after. The portal to the lab opens with a crack; his father and Callum stepping through. The other witcher usually helps his father with dragging subjects out of their cells, beating the others back with a truncheon, but the fun doesn't start immediately because they talk first. It’s the same old same old, with Callum asking if he’s any closer to a cure and Thomas saying that he’s still not accomplished that. He’s at least finally finished ‘the serum’, whatever that was, and Callum takes it with reverence, glee in his face as he holds the vial of clear liquid up to the light.

“Will it work with those stakes of yours?”

“Yes. Far better than the silver nitrate.”

“Perfect. It’ll be nice not to have to keep killing the same vampire every few decades.” He sets it on the alchemy table. 

“Once you have your witcher mutations stripped-”

“Never said  _ I  _ would be doing the killing.” He said with a sense of satisfaction. “There are plenty of people that have lost sons, sisters,  _ fathers-”  _ He snarled, paused, and then continued “Doubtless there's enough people like that, and they would  _ love  _ the idea of being able to permanently put down those abominations. Just think, a little bit of this in a drink. Or poured into a well. Or witch hunters equipped with bolts that inject it.”

“Ah, I see. It is rather more user-friendly than having to swing a sword, I’ll admit.”

“An equalizer for the masses.” He nodded, and looked over at Jerome. “...what will you do with him now?”

“I...I shall try one last mutagen.” His father says, and Jerome feels dread creep up his spine. He doesn't like the hesitant way that’s being said.

Callum doesn't like it either. “Which one?”

“True higher vampire.” He pulls up a small vial, mother-of-pearl and glass in the light and-oh. Oh god, he knows that vial, no-

Callum’s giving it a look of doubt. “Nothing in the witcher trials covers that. Katakan, sure. Bruxa, yes. But not-”

“They’re not  _ that  _ distantly related.” He said with a defensive tone.

“Whatever.” Callum mutters, and goes to his cell. 

Jerome is as weak as a kitten, so he’s not able to do much more than spit on him. Callum bares his teeth in return, but doesn't do anything else. His father had forbidden him from any overt cruelties towards him or the others. No, that was reserved for the maestro himself: his father, who-under the terrifying mantra of ‘I do what I must’ of true monsters everywhere-sacrifices the lives and sanity of multiple people in some insane venture to tear the witcher part away so he could have his son back. 

He’s stuffed into the iron maiden and strapped in. This was a recent invention, supposed to be ‘less invasive’, which just means it’s slightly less painful than a big ass needle in his arm. “This one...better give me a...a bigger dick.”

His cellmate gives a hollow laugh.

“You’re already a huge prick.” Sneered Callum. “Regretting killing my father yet?”

“I don’t know,” He drawled wheezily, “about as much as he regretted...beating...my friends.”

“Oh yes, the nice little halfling and the elf. Tell me, which one did a freak like you like more? The elf, probably. He seems the type to like taking it up the arse. They all are.”

He’s tired, and his head is spinning, his vision swooping and black at the edges and he feels drunk. Talks like it too, says things. “His name...was Tasar. He liked a lot...of things ... He liked wine...and singing. He  _ loved _ me. Loved him back. And your...father...beat his face...until he didn't have a  _ face.” _

“Witchers don’t love.” His father says quietly. “They’ve had it stripped from them. Along with every other thing that made them human, made them...made them my son.”

_ Some little, tinny voice idly remarks that it almost makes all of this horrible, horrible experience make sense that his father thinks he’s some abhuman that can’t love him like a son should- _

“That’s right,” Callum says sardonically, and he looks at the fucker that  _ knows it’s all bullshit  _ but Callum’s not exactly going to correct an errant belief if it benefits him.

“Well, my father  _ loved  _ me and you burned him alive, along with so many others. Finding a ‘cure’ for an ‘affliction’ that makes you capable of such inhumane acts sounds like just the thing you need.” He smiles gleefully.

He wants to say if he adds anymore quotes to that sentence he’d choke on them, but instead what comes out: 

“I’m sure he did.” He rasps, and Callum just goggles at him, wrong-footed and unsure how to respond to that. He doesn't pay him any mind, just staring at his father's hunched shoulders.

He turns, and his father won’t meet his eyes. Hasn't been able to since this started, and still won’t as he walks close to administer the mutagen.

“Papa.”

He won’t look at him.

He can barely breathe, his lungs feel like they’re burning, but he tries again. “Papa, please.”

He finally looks, and his eyes are the same brown eyes they’ve always been when he was little and learning his letters  _ ‘A is for angelica, B is bloodmoss-’  _ and there's nothing so cliche as a spark of madness in them.

“Such a wonderful imitation.” He murmurs, voice tremulous. “You sound just like him.”

Then the door is shut in his face, like it had been so many years ago when he’d come back mutated and strange but thinking he was still his father’s son-

The hissing noise starts, and his lungs feel chilled and tingle like he’d gotten a deep breath of crisp winter air. He slowly just...floats away, going numb and insensate, his thoughts slow as a glacier.

_ Visions flash and spark in front of him, and he can feel the dim red glow of a sullen sun on his skin, see it looming large on the horizon of a pale grey sky overcast with clouds, shadows long over the ground. His entire being feels like it’s being stretched and pulled like taffy, his lungs straining to fill themselves on the thin, chilly air like he’s standing high on a mountainside. It’s cool and damp, huge fungus growing around him, the angular rock covered in moss and lichen, small nightmares skittering among them, eyeless insectoids covered in dense hair feeding on the gills of the mushrooms- _

_ After that slow creep of sights and sensations it slams into him; scents of damp earth different from any soil he’s smelled, blurred forms some horrific mishmash of human and bat, hear them trill and click- _

A door opens in front of his face and he wants out, out  _ out,  _ his senses going haywire. He can’t tell what’s up from down, separate the reality of the lab from the hallucination of that alien landscape. He focuses on Callum even as his face keeps shifting into some horrid bat’s face, and he leaps for him. He leaps, and he feels his teeth sink into the meat of his arm, feels hot blood gush into his mouth and it’s so fucking  _ satisfying _ -

And then he looks up and sees not the face of Callum, the kid he’d orphaned and given to the school out of pity because where else was he to  _ go _ -

_ But it’s the face of stranger with dark eyes and messy grey hair, shocked and in pain and- _

* * *

“-gis? Regis.”

He felt like he was pulling himself from gluey mud, tendrils of unconsciousness clinging to him, and looked up into the worried eyes of his friend. He can’t think clearly, even as Geralt asks him what he’s sure is a question but he can’t...he can’t figure out what he’s  _ asking.  _ He tries to focus but all he can visualize is a gaping maw lined with teeth like fish bones closing around his arm, how it had cracked open the mutilated face like some nightmare horror. He tries to speak, but his lips feel numb and he can only mumble, swiftly slipping back into dreams.

Geralt is deeply worried. He’s never seen Regis like this, just barely able to rise to consciousness for a few seconds before falling back into a restless sleep. He’s breathing hard-well, for a vampire-and for a being that doesn't need to breathe more than once every quarter of an hour (he’d timed it once, out of curiosity) and his breaths were  _ labored.  _ This is a very, very bad sign. And from what BB had told him, he’d been like this for the past three hours. His condition was not improving, and Geralt was afraid that if he stayed like this his friend would get worse. He had to find some way of helping him.

He took a quick stock of what he knew. Regis had been bitten by one of his patients-BB hadn't been able to clarify which-and the bite had caused Regis to become dizzy and weak. It also not healed, still, even after a few hours which was  _ really  _ worrying on a being that could heal in seconds. He was breathing fast, labored, and he was very pale and his veins were dark on his paler than usual skin. In a human he would have said he’d been bitten by something venomous, but he doubted the local vipers here would have had any effect on a vampire. He  _ does  _ remember that the bite of a vampire is poisonous to humans and others of their kind, causing a soporific effect in people and being fatal to vampires. 

He frowns deeply at the screen behind him. If Dettlaff…

If that murderous bastard killed Regis in a fit, immolation would be too good for him. He’d find a jar of acid and keep him in it; see him try to come back from  _ that. _ Hell, he’d keep him in the basement and top it off as needed, as long as was needed.

He storms over, and is surprised to find Dettlaff exactly where he’d left him, not a spot of blood on him. The other guy, however…’bloodbath’ would probably cover it. He was also covered in ropes, belts, leather straps; everything short of chains to keep him attached to the cot. He stared, baffled, and came to the slow realization that maybe, just maybe, the mutated horrifying experiment from an alchemist lab  _ that may or may not have vampire genes- _

“Shit.” He hissed, feeling a little bit of panic scrabble at the back of his throat, because vampire venom was one thing, but  _ mutated venom  _ was another. He looked around frantically, and his eyes landed on Dettlaff. He remembers that Regis said the other vampire had helped him back into the land of the living at great expense to himself, paid in blood. Maybe the guy was still healing but he was damn well going to donate some more right now. He can make more later, after he’s recovered. Regis, under the effects of the only kind of thing that can kill vampires  _ permanently,  _ might not have that kind of option.

He opens a vein. The blood is slow to come and he isn't able to get much, but he does get a half of a teacup full. It’ll do for now; he can let the other vampire build up more while he feeds Regis some. Well, he  _ assumes  _ he’ll have to ‘feed’ Regis with it; he’s not sure how to even do a blood transfusion. He manages to wake Regis enough for him to swallow it, and he waits anxiously for it to take effect. It’s not immediate, but his breathing slows after a few minutes, the veins recede, and after an hour his friend blearily opens his eyes.

“Geralt…” He swallows dryly, and Geralt hands him a glass of tea, and has to help him drink it. The doctor takes a breath. “...I feel terrible.”

“You look it too. Remember what happened?”

“I...the other patient...his face  _ changed.” _

Geralt frowns, listening closely.

“He looked like an...anglerfish. But eyeless.” He shuddered. “Horrifying.”

“Did a number on your arm too.” Geralt said, checking on it. It hasn't healed yet, but the rest of him was looking better so he wasn't too worried about it. “Does it hurt?”

“...Feels numb.”

“Can you move your hand?”

He does so, but it’s lethargic. Geralt tests his reactions by seeing if he can feel him prodding his arm and hand over different parts. The area immediately around the bite is numb, but he can feel distant sensations everywhere else. 

“Anything I can do to help?”

Regis looks conflicted. “I...the only thing I can think of is blood.”

“More of Dettlaff’s?”

“Ah, blood of any kind but honestly Geralt, I’d really rather not-”

“Yeah, getting drunk while you feel like shit doesn't sound like fun.” He smiles to show he’s just joking, then goes serious. “I know you probably don’t want to bleed your friend, but Dettlaff isn't going anywhere and he can spare the blood for something like  _ this.” _

“I don’t think that’s  _ necessary-” _

“Regis, you got bitten by some bizarre experiment that has some kind of venom close enough to a vampire to seriously affect you. I really don't want to take chances with losing you a second time; and permanently.”

Regis opened his mouth to argue but deflated almost immediately. He looks too tired to argue, and for a vampire that never shuts up that was a worrying sign. Geralt has him take two more cupfulls, and Dettlaff is looking rather the worse for wear and is about tapped out by the end of it. Regis, on the other hand, is looking about like what he did before he got bit by a man-made horror, even if his arm still hasn't completely healed. It’s stopped being numb though, and from the wincing way Regis is cradling his arm, it must hurt like a bitch. It’s bad enough that Regis dips into his own supply of painkillers, which Geralt is both amused and worried by.

“I admit that I’m not very accustomed to pain.” Regis says, looking sheepish. “I heal so quickly that the pain is there and gone most times.”

“Is this like what happens when a vampire bites another?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I’ve never seen it first hand, only very watered-down accounts. It’s something of a taboo to even discuss.” He prodded carefully at the wound. “Biting another vampire with the intent to kill is strictly forbidden; there are so few of us, and we breed so seldom that if we allowed ourselves to murder each other we would quickly go extinct in this world. Any vampire that does so is essentially exiled from our kind, to be attacked and killed by others on sight.”

“That’s...harsh. What, no exceptions? Not even if you were protecting someone, or if the other vampire was a lunatic that went on a spree?”

“None, my friend. Our kind view takes a ‘slippery slope’ view on such things.”

“Didn't you say that was a logical fallacy once?”

“I did, but others don’t see it that way.” He stopped his self-examination with a wince. “So, you can imagine there's not much literature or information on the effects of our venom on ourselves. Plenty on humans, but otherwise…”

“Right. Taboo subject, I bet.”

“Indeed.” 

Geralt looked apologetic. “Sorry he, uh…well, I hope the blood helps.”

“It is helping Geralt. At least we know that the blood of another vampire is a good antidote for that venom.” He sighed. “It is quite alright Geralt. You couldn't have known.”

“Still,” Geralt says firmly, “I’m moving him, and I’m getting some better restraints. Manacles and some bolts, just to be safe.  _ Thick  _ ones.”

Regis considered that. “That's...probably a good idea. I don’t want him near Dettlaff either; he’s even worse off than I. He will not have the reserves to fight the venom.”

Geralt nodded. He first made sure that Regis was all set-he was flagging, but he just seemed tired, not sick-so he let him rest within easy reach of water and food if he needed them later, and set to work. It was good to keep his hands busy to keep them from shaking because  _ meletilit’s tits  _ he’d thought he was going to lose Regis  _ again _ after just getting him back. Maybe he could have fought off the venom on his own, given time and rest but…

Geralt sighs and drags the bastard to the other room. He’s half a mind to chuck him into an oven because what if he got his strength back and it was the strength of a crazed science experiment gone wrong rather than a thinking, reasoning being? Fuck, it could be like that poor bastard he’d had to take down once when looking for armor diagrams; the witcher that had been tortured then possessed by a demon. There hadn't been any reasoning with that thing, it just attacked whatever came close enough.

He dithers for a moment, seriously considering it, then goes to get the dimeritium shackles. These are stronger than normal manacles, and they dull any magic as well just to be extra careful. He gets a few lengths of dimeritium chain too, glad he’d been accumulating them from witch hunter ‘donations’ in his never-ending pursuit of arms and armor. If anyone asked, he said that a witcher was only as good as his tools, but privately he was like a goddamn crow with his collection. 

He winds the chains around the cot, then around a support beam. He doesn't have an inch of slack, and after eyeing the blood-stained mouth, he wraps extra chain over his forehead and chin. He doesn't want the guy being able to move his head and take off fingers when Regis needs to try feeding him liquids. That done, he finally has a chance to sit down and...put his face in his hands and shudder his way through the terror. There's a lot of shudders. It takes a few minutes.

And then he sits his ass down and meditates because that’s what Vesimir told him to do when they get bad. At the end of it all, he’s finally able to stop shaking and haul himself off to bed to sleep restlessly.

The next day dawned bright and sunny; just the kind of day to get high on wight saliva, vampire blood, and hand broth. At least Regis is looking better, though he still looked like warmed over death. He’s eating gruel instead of normal food because he was feeling too nauseous to eat anything else but he was  _ eating,  _ so that has to count for something. He looked up from his meal to give Geralt a quizzical look and he stepped back, realizing he’d been hovering. 

“Sorry.” He said awkwardly. “...Feeling better?”

“A bit better. I believe I’m out of the woods, though I  _ feel  _ like I’ve just woken up from a night of heavy drinking.” He sighed, shaking his head. “All the effects of a hangover and none of the fun.”

Geralt snorted, reassured. “Good. Just got you back, don’t want you leaving again.”

Regis smiled warmly at him. “And I’m in no hurry to leave, my friend. I do believe I’m well enough to monitor you while you take the potion as well, although I’ve enlisted Barnabas-Basil to assist as added insurance.”

Geralt gave his majordomo a wry look. “Never thought you’d get mixed up in this weird shit, did you BB?”

“On the contrary, the moment I heard I’d be working for a witcher I mentally prepared myself. I even made evacuation plans for the staff should some monster you captured run amuck on the grounds.”

Geralt flicked his eyes to the screen that obscured Dettlaff and made a snort. “Hope you won’t need them.”

BB handed him the vial and he eyed the mix with trepidation. “...It smells like death.”

“Considering what it’s made of, I’m surprised it doesn't smell worse,” Regis added.

“Yeah, whatever. Got the vodka ready?”

“Of course, my friend.”

“All right then. Bottoms up.”

He swills it down, and it pulls his consciousness with it. 


	10. Land of a Thousand Memories

* * *

The first thing he experiences is the sheer  _ noise _ **.**

His hearing has always been good, but it feels as if he’s been introduced to a whole new level of sensation-he can hear the beetles in the leaf litter, the squeaks of mice when they meet under logs. The second is what new things he can see-it’s confusing and takes him a long time to figure out, but he realizes he can see the body heat of living things. The tiny forms of sleeping plumards curled in crevices glow faintly in the dark, and he marvels at this new ability. Thankfully, traipsing around in some other species head and sensing what they sense hasn't had any worse effects on him. The hearing thing he could do without, but the sight is actually incredibly useful and he wishes that he could keep it.

He takes stock of where he is first. It’s a large cavern, dark save for what little moonlight came in through the entrance. It reflected off the little odds and ends all over it; glass baubles, carved toys, chinaware...just random junk put onto every available surface or hung from the ceiling. They’re interesting, but they don’t hold his interest like what’s at the center.

It’s a huge bat.

It’s hulking shape hangs from the ceiling, wings tucked neatly around it. He recognizes this kind; Regis had taken this form at Stygga. It’s definitely a higher vampire of some kind, probably a true one, though he supposes it could be a bruxa since they could take that shape as well. He freezes and tries not to breathe. He hopes like hell that the things he sees in this vision can’t hurt him, because while he  _ could  _ take on a higher vampire that doesn't mean he  _ wants  _ too. At least it seems asleep, though vampires have as good of hearing as he did and it’s bound to wake up sooner or later. He crept along excruciatingly slowly around the cave walls, taking care not to step on the multitude of junk strewn about or to wake the plumards all over the damn place. 

He freezes when he gets close to a carved rocking horse. It starts moving of its own volition, the tiniest of creaking noises from the runners starting up. He creeps over and carefully puts a hand on it to still it; and suddenly he can’t move and a tingling runs up his arm-

His vision jerks sideways and  _ blurs- _

-And now he’s at the mouth of a cave that opens into the forest, the full moon low in the sky, so low that there's a sliver of dawn on the horizon. Geralt blinks, confused at the sudden change in scenery, but he doesn't have much time to contemplate it when he hears rustling. He turned to see a boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen emerge from the forest, his eyes reflecting unearthly silver. He looks wild, half-feral and strange, wearing nothing more than a loincloth and leaves and twigs tangled in his hair. He lopes like a dog, short claws throwing up clods as he comes up to the cave mouth.

Geralt’s never seen a young higher vampire on account that the species are extremely protective of their children. As far as anyone knows they’re raised in creches under the watch of at least a handful of adults, too well-guarded for a witcher to ever see, but he can guess this is a juvenile true higher vampire, as they’re the only ones that can take on a human form so young. He watches as the child doesn't seem to even see him, despite him being in full view. It suddenly occurs to him that the boy probably  _ can’t  _ see him-after all, the potion was to help him see memories. And right now, he’s somehow been dropped into one without warning.  _ So if this is a memory, what was that place I was in earlier with the adult vampire-? _

Speaking of adults, one rounds a corner in the huge shape of a bat that they tended to take on full moons. “Dettlaff,” It rumbled “Come inside. It’s almost dawn.”

The child-whom he assumes is Dettlaff-crouches and doesn't answer, knees almost to his ears, his eyes flat and almost animal-like. He reminds him of a child he’d once seen in a small village that the other people had treated like a stray dog; who’d even barked sometimes but never spoke. He feels a little tickle in the back of his mind, and he comes to the slow realization that he can actually  _ feel  _ what Dettlaff is feeling; strange excitement and curiosity, the feelings so alien he’s hard-pressed to name or understand them.

The adult stares back, eyes narrowing until they lose patience. “ _ Now.”  _ He snaps, and Dettlaff skitters in like a rat, low and fast, and the other vampire watches them with a look somewhere between confusion and discomfort. 

“Such a strange child.” He mutters when he passes.

Geralt is inclined to agree, but ignores the bat in favor of following Dettlaff who continues to play-act at being a wild animal, running on all fours or occasionally bounding about, irritating the adults and ignoring their hisses of ‘stand up and run!’ or ‘where are your  _ pants?’  _ Geralt’s deeply amused at the boy’s antics, weird as they are, and continues to follow him until he gets to a little recess in the cave. Here’s another adult, and the muzzle of the bat-they are all in their more animalistic forms, since it’s the full moon-wiggles in delight. He recognizes this one; it had been hanging in the other cavern he’d seen earlier.

“Dettlaff, there you are.” He murmurs. “Been out terrorizing the local wildlife again?”

Dettlaff gambols around the other vampire’s legs like a happy dog, and Geralt can feel his joy. He can bet that this is his father or other close relative, and the bat watches with an amused look on his face.

“So what are you tonight, hmm? A garkain? Fleder?”

He continues to guess until he says ‘plumard’, and then the boy stops, grinning up at the other vampire. “Ah, that’s it then. Well, good thing you came in then-no one wants a crispy plumard when the sun comes out.”

“You really shouldn't encourage him.” A second adult comes in, a female. 

“He’s connected to the lower vampires, he-”

“-Needs to learn to control it, not revel in it.” She looked at Dettlaff, who stopped smiling. A thread of worry started in his gut. “Stand up.”

He stood.

“You’ll stop that nonsense. You are too old for this-it was fine when you were one or two decades, but you’ve almost reached your fortieth birthday. In another decade or two you’ll be supping blood with the other adolescents.” She pointed at him with the thumb of her wing. “You understand me? Now,  _ speak,  _ don’t just nod.”

“Yes auntie.” He murmurs, head down.

“Look at me when you speak.” She says sternly. “You need to  _ look people in the eye _ when you talk.”

He pulls his head up-with what looks like extreme difficulty-and tries again. “Y-yes auntie.”

“Good.” She mutters. “Now go, I need to talk with your father.”

He does-walking upright this time-and Geralt is extremely unsurprised to find him ducking into a crevice a few feet down to eavesdrop. He can’t count the number of times he’d caught Ciri doing just that. He snorts and crouches next to him to listen too.

“Why do you keep  _ harping  _ on that?” 

“Someone has too.” She groused. “He has no friends other than that reclusive Emiel boy, and he only tolerates your son because he barely talks.”

Geralt feels a twinge of hurt and looks at Dettlaff, whose face was creased. He’d like to say that traveling hundreds of miles because you were worried and getting you fished out of the lake spoke to more than just tolerating, but this is a memory after all; Dettlaff won’t hear him. Besides, this is hundreds of years ago and Regis is a vastly different person; his aunt might very well be right.

“He has no interest in the other children. I can’t  _ force  _ him to make friends.”

“He has no interest in them because he’s not motivated to make friends. He’s telepathically connected to lower vampires that will play with him, dance; hell,  _ sing  _ if he wants them too. Why would he  _ bother _ with befriending other children? _ ” _

“I admit you may have a point, but what am I to  _ do?  _ It’s not just that he’s unmotivated, he’s...well. I’m not sure that it’s his connection to lower vampires that’s responsible for his inability to understand certain...things.”

“What, you mean how stupidly gullible he is?” His aunt said scathingly. “Or how baffled he is by sarcasm? It’s difficult enough just trying to have a conversation with him when he barely speaks, but when he doesn't even understand  _ half of it- _ ”

“He’s not stupid he’s just-”

“Just what, hmm? I’d like to know, honestly. Hell, so would everyone else.” She sighed.

“So would I.” His father said quietly.

Gods, this is...painful. Not just because he can feel the roil of emotions from the kid next to him-from hurt to embarrassment to worry  _ am I different, is there something wrong with me? _ -but just on it’s own. Regis had said that Dettlaff was more ‘bestial’ than most, but he’s starting to wonder if the other vampire had the entire picture; if his theory about the connection to the lower vampires being  _ entirely  _ responsible for all of his...quirks. 

He looks down at this strange, half-feral child curled in the alcove with his arms around his knees, eyes wide and scared as his father worries about  _ ‘will he ever have friends, gods what if he never-’ _

The conversation trails off, reaching its end and Dettlaff can sense it coming, walking off as quietly as he can to what Geralt imagines is his room. It’s like the cavern he’d appeared in earlier on a smaller scale, with a nest of blankets and rags rather than an actual bed, knicknacks piled everywhere, hung from the ceiling or placed in rock crevices. Little toys and carvings and glass baubles, probably stolen or scavenged; with no rhyme nor reason to their collection other than they probably looked objectively pretty to a creature that had no use for them nor knew what their usage even was. It reminds him a bit of the wight’s lair with her spoons. The young vampire sits in his nest and covers himself almost completely with blankets; only the shine of his eerie eyes to be seen.

Presently his father comes in, wings dragging with exhaustion but still putting careful effort in to not disturb the hanging collection. “Son. Still awake?”

A tiny movement-a nod-from the nest.

“I…” He seems to be struggling for words. “Your aunt loves you. Perhaps it may not seem that way when she lectures you, but she worries.”

Silence from the nest.

“Tomorrow, we could go out for new things to add, hmm? Perhaps the next village over will have some of those books with numbers you like.”

Silence for a while while the bat looks more and more concerned, the expression breaking into relief when another nod comes.

“Well, then. Sleep tight, don’t let the witchers bite.” A wing caresses the lump, and he turns to leave.

“Papa.” The voice is very small, and raspy. Geralt gets the impression that it doesn't get used much.

The other vampire stills, waiting expectantly, and Geralt can feel the unspoken questions in the younger vampire’s brain  _ why am I like this, what  _ **_am_ ** _ I like- _

“...sing? The song?”

He will grant that the kid is probably a bit old for lullabies, but his father doesn't object. Crouching down-carefully, there were a lot of knick knacks-and started to sing a very, very old song. One that Geralt actually knew, and that was strange to think of. He has to wonder if this was where that song came from; and that maybe it originated as a cautionary song to young monsters, where  _ witchers _ were the boogeyman. He settles in to listen.

_ “Wolves asleep amid the trees _

_ Bats all a swaying in the breeze _

_ But one soul lies anxious wide awake _

_ Fearing all manner of ghouls, hags and wraiths-” _

He keeps listening even as the memory dissolves around him.

* * *

“Is that...normal?” Basil looked down at Geralt, who was currently frowning deeply and mumbling under his breath.

“Honestly, I’ve no idea. Not much was said about what effects this is supposed to have.” Regis said, watching Geralt with interest. “At least he isn't writhing like earlier.”

Basil doesn't know what to say to that, nibbling at his bottom lip nervously. 

* * *

He’s back in the cavern; and he slowly lifts his hand from the rocking horse. It’s stopped moving, and he blinks to realize that the cavern had shifted suddenly. It has a washed out look, the shades and shadows of the whole environment changing from cooler, darker blues and purples to harsher reds and yellows, the colors bleached and almost dirty. Everything is still, almost dead-feeling, and he pulls back to look to see at the center of the cavern is something like a played out scene, like a damaged megascope recording, the scene gritty and skipping. The father is in his human form this time, the resemblance striking, the same hair and eyes but his face is more pointed, sharper, his entire seeming far more lean and rawboned. This is Dettlaff after a rougher life with meager comforts.

_ “Why did you do that?” He’s screaming, gripping a young, barely pubescent Dettlaff by the upper arms far too tight. “You tried to-you tried to take over his mind, WHY?!” _

_ “I-I-wanted him to be m-m-my friend.” The younger vampire stuttered. “I-I-he wouldn't p-p-play with me-said I was-was-was too  _ **_weird-_ ** _ ” _

_ “That is not how you make friends! You never-you never do that! Never again!” He’s shaking Dettlaff roughly, and the child is terrified. “You won’t turn into your mother, you won’t!” _

_ “Y-y-yes, papa!” _

_ “Marus, enough!” The aunt-he recognized the voice-made an appearance. She pulls him away from Dettlaff, who crouches in a shivering heap. _

_ The man is hysterical, and Geralt can recognize fear-fueled rage. “He’s just like her! He got her-her-” _

_ Oh shit, his mother must have been an empath too-one that didn't use her abilities for anything good, judging by the father’s reaction.  _

_ “Marus  _ **_no_ ** _ , he’s a child, he didn't mean it-I’m sorry, it’s my fault for pressuring him to make friends to resort to such desperate means-” _

Geralt is deeply uncomfortable, coming to the slow realization he may have gotten more than he ever bargained for with this potion. This scene-whatever it is-becomes increasingly muted and distorted, like a mage-cast illusion running out of energy, the colors deepen and return to what they were before. Finally the scene shatters like glass, the fragments fading and melting away like it was never there.

He’s so shocked by what he just saw that it takes him a few minutes to feel the gaze on him. The vampire hanging from the ceiling is staring at him, eyes wide.

“What-” He blinks rapidly. “Who are you?”

“Uh...” He says, stalling. “Are you...Dettlaff’s father?”

The vampire hisses, looking, if anything, more alarmed. “How do you know my son?”

“We’ve met.” He says, carefully stepping towards the cave exit.

Marus bares his teeth, not at all reassured, and unfurled his wings.  _ Great, now I have to fight a maybe-maybe not deadly monster; god I hope that those flesh-rending claws can’t do  _ **_real_ ** _ damage. _

He dodges, but only just. The cavern is a good size but so is the bat, and those wings give a lot of reach. It sends the careful collection flying, and he’s suddenly reminded of a feast years ago that he’d attended where he’d had to fight amongst a malestom of gravy boats, platters, and turkey legs. At least that had been somewhat amusing even among the screaming; this was deadly serious. Higher vampires were even more dangerous than a girl with uncontrolled elder blood, and he didn't have a druid along to help. 

He blew an aard at the vampire, the blast catching the knick knacks and pelting it with doorknobs and forks. He hissed angrily, unaffected, and took a flying leap at him. He dodged again, this time coming to rest next to some different random junk-different in that they moved on their own, like the rocking horse.

Marus froze. “You get away from those!” He hissed nervously.

The vampire doesn't seem to want to attack when he’s surrounded by these so he’ll take a breather when it’s offered. “Look, I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to damage anything either. I’m trying to  _ help  _ your son.”

He bared his teeth again. “Witchers don’t help vampires, they hunt them.”

“Not always. Look, you know Regis, right? He’s a friend of mine. Asked me to help Dettlaff.”

The other vampire looked confused. “What, the bookworm? He hardly ever leaves the cavern. How on earth could you have met him?”

_ Oh, wait _ . He did remember Regis saying he used to be a recluse buried in his books before he hit his rambunctious teen years; and that probably was the only version that Dettlaff’s father knew. 

“...Long story. Look, where the hell  _ am  _ I? I swear, all I want to know is what the hell is this place, then I’ll leave.”

The vampire considers this for a long moment. “...The beginning. All of the earliest memories are here.”

Geralt blinks.  _ The beginning... _ suddenly it hits him just what he’s gotten himself into. Gods, the resonance had somehow turned Dettlaff’s mind into  _ a physical space.  _ He’s seen plenty of powerful magic, having known many sorcerers and sorceresses, broken curses, seen it wild in the woods. This is...well, different to say the least. The closest he’d come to this is like when he’s stepped into the painted world; a whole setting rendered in exacting detail that he could explore.

In that setting, though, there had been nightmares. Terrifying, deadly ones. He really,  _ really  _ hopes that’s not the same here.

“Look, just let me go and I’ll leave. Believe me, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here.”

The vampire narrowed his eyes. “...Fine.”

He moved aside, and Geralt carefully withdrew. He kept his sword ready just in case, but other than glaring at him the bat seemned to be okay with letting him go. Once safely outside, he takes stock of where he is.

It was a forest at night, but trees, flowers, and even tiny mushrooms were beautifully rendered in metal and glass. Each object was a lacework of copper and brass suspended over clicking gears, the soft noise of them in the background like the entire setup was a giant clock. The painted world had been blurry with deep shadows and something that just put his teeth on edge. This was actually...beautiful; like something out of a storybook. He watched a bat fly by his face, a flash of copper, enameled metal and whirring gears. If he hadn’t just witnessed those two scenes in the place behind him, he might have actually admired it, but the beauty of the place is lost on him now.

He looks behind him, and it’s the same cave mouth from the memory he’d somehow experienced-complete with bat, though this one was glaring at from the depths of it-only now there’s a path of flat, copper-veined rocks in front of him. He remembers that Regis had told him that Resonance brought up intense memories, so he could safely conclude that what he’d just left was one of them and this path was littered with more. His job was going to be to sift through and find the right one. A big task, but he hopes he can find it before the potion runs out.

“Let’s see where this path leads.”

* * *

“What is this supposed to do again?”

“It allows him to see the most  _ recent _ ,  _ intense _ memories of a person.”

“How long do you think that will take then?”

Regis hums thoughtfully. “I mean...about an hour? Though I suppose it could last longer.”

* * *

“ _Parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme…_ ”

Geralt stops along the path, listening intently.  _ That sounds like Regis.  _

He steps off the main path onto an offshoot, and presently he came to a small clearing. He was surprised to see a small, fairly average cottage of stone and a thatched roof. In front of it are raised beds with perfectly normal herbs in them, most of which he even recognizes. And tending to them is a very familiar vampire.

“Regis?” Geralt says, approaching cautiously. 

“ _Remember me_ -Ah, hello there. How may I help you?” The vampire approached. “Looking for a skin cream? A diuretic?”

Geralt cocked his head. “...No?”

Looking at him closer, Regis seems slightly...off. He can’t put a finger on it, but it’s like a doppler has taken on his appearance but hasn't quite had enough time to study him and gotten it almost right but not quite. It makes him uncomfortable.

“Ah, come for a shave then? I have-”

“Regis, come on, it’s me. It’s...you don’t recognize me?” He paused. “It’s  _ Geralt,-” _

He has to wonder if this was how people felt when he was the one wandering around with amnesia.

“Oh! Geralt! My old friend.” Regis breaks out into a smile of recognition, but the statement almost seems like...well, an empty statement, not of actual knowledge. The smell of him when he comes in close to give Geralt a hug is subtly different too, and that’s what finally clues him in.

This place, this person-these are the memories and impressions of someone  _ else  _ about Regis. The Regis in front of him wasn't the real thing. When he pulls away, Geralt addresses him.

“Of course you didn't recognize me.” He says. “Dettlaff has never met me-or, well, knew it was me when I saw him. So you wouldn't know what I look like either, since you’re just...the Regis that lives in Dettlaff’s head.”

It was Regis’ turn to look confused. “I think you mean I live  _ here,  _ Geralt. In my home in Brugge. Don’t you recognize it?”

Geralt looked at the stone house. He’d never been to Regis’ home, just his summer location in the cemetery where he collected mandrake but Dettlaff might not necessarily know that, and might’ve assumed that Geralt had. Gods was this disorentating; the... _ not _ Regis looked, smelled, even  _ talked  _ slightly different then the real thing. His voice had this annoying, almost patronizing edge to it, and Geralt gave him a glare for the ‘I think you mean’ comment. 

“Cut that out Regis.” Geralt says, annoyed.

Regis gave him a confused look. “Cut...what out? Are you sure you know what you’re talking about?”

Geralt closed his eyes slowly and breathed deeply through his nose. Meletilites tits, was this how Regis was like to this guy? Very subtly condescending, like he thought you weren't quite all there or some shit-

_ -“He’s more... _ beastial _ than most. Doesn't know what it means to lie”- _

Oh great, Regis thinks Dettlaff was a little soft in the head. Lovely. Regis had  _ told _ him that he didn't believe that Dettlaff was actually  _ was  _ imbecilic, just that Dettlaff was just a little different than most, but subconsciously...well, looking at the condescending way he was acting now that might not be entirely true. Hell, were they even friends then or is Regis just hanging out with him out of pity? Or was it more of a doctor-patient thing with Regis trying to teach him how to be a normal, functioning member of society? He hopes it’s the latter, though when he wakes up he’s going to bring this up to Regis because gods this is  _ grating.  _ Maybe the guy was oblivious enough not to notice because the Regis here didn't seem to _know_ he was being patronizing, but regardless he and the surgeon were going to have a heart-to-heart just so he wouldn't have to listen to this.

“Nevermind. Look, would you be able to help me?”

“Of course my friend.”

“I’m, uh, trying to find a specific memory. Do you know how I could do that?” He hopes to god this Regis-no, too weird to call him Regis, fuck it, he’s Emiel now-is aware enough of this ‘world’ to understand something of it, even if he’s not aware enough to realize that he’s some literal figment of Dettlaff’s imagination.

Emiel paused, hand to his chin, and at least the thoughtful look he adopted was accurate. Probably because he spent most of his waking hours deep in thought, so plenty of time to observe it.

“It really depends,” He said. “There are parts that each of us call home that contain memories related to them. You will have to find the person that is part of the memory you’re looking for.”

“Do you know who the...others might be?”

“No, I’ve only met Dettlaff’s father, none of the others.”

Ah, so if Emiel hadn't met them in real life that Dettlaff knew of, he wouldn't know them in here. Great, he’d have to wander around until he found the right person. “How do I see memories then? I saw one a few minutes ago, but I was just shoved into that one.”

“Memories take physical forms here. Each of us is unique in what form they take. For others, they may take different forms based on objects they have an emotional attachment to. For me, it's an alchemical solution. Drinking one will allow you to see the more intense memories associated with me.”

Geralt frowned. “So, when I was with Marus-”

“Dettlaff’s father-” Emeil interjected.

“-Yeah, I figured that out, don’t interrupt-I touched a toy; a rocking horse.”

“And you saw a memory?”

“Yeah, like I was  _ in  _ it as it happened.” He paused. “But when I came out of it, I was back in the cave Marus _...lives _ in?-you know, the one with knick knacks-but then I saw another one without touching anything, and it played out there like a megascope recording. What was  _ that  _ about?”

Emiel looks confused. “I...are you quite sure that you saw it like that? You have to interact with an object see-”

Geralt wants to shake him. “Goddamnit Emiel, I’m not your imbecilic friend Dettlaff, stop talking to me like I’m a drooling moron. I know what I saw!” 

“I think you _ mean  _ Regis _ -” _

He made an aggravated noise and practically fled before he did something he’d regret. 

* * *

“-Fuckin...jackass...punch em’ in the  _ throat-” _

Basil is thoroughly entertained by this. “Gods, I wonder what’s going on now?”

Regis looked similarly amused. “I’d love to know. I’ll have to ask him when he wakes up.”

“Best two of three?” Basil suggested, shuffling the cards.

“Let’s make it five of seven. I need more practice.”

* * *

Geralt continued on the path, looking around and wondering just how to even  _ start _ .

From what he can gather the main path branched off into little glens that held people Dettlaff knew or had known in the past, each with their own little archive of memories. Fuck, he just might be screwed because a centuries-old vampire was bound to have known a  _ lot  _ of people. He groans and goes down the next offshoot to see who was down this one and if they might know anything. 

This leads to a...toyshop, of all things. It’s one of those little buildings with a living space atop and the store below. It’s lit with candlelight and lamps, a beacon in the moonlit forest, the inside bright and inviting, the outside richly painted and decorated, the window boxes planted with frilled pinks. He approaches and looks curiously through the window and sees warm wooden walls decorated with carved trim painted deep, vibrant colors, flickering shadows playing over the walls. It looks like just the kind of place that could be found in a storybook, and he wonders if this was a real place he’d visited once or seen in a picture or-

He blinks as he sees a halfling and an elf inside, the first a dark-haired woman with green eyes that looks to be late twenties and objectively pretty if you were into that sort of thing, and the other a slim elfin man with sandy hair and brown eyes, approximately the same age. She spots him the same moment he spots her, and she smiles and waves him in. He sighs, and figures he may as well.

“Welcome to Dalia and Drosselmeyer's toyshop. Looking for anything in particular?”

“...Uh.” Fuck, what to even say. “Which one...are you?”

She looks amused. “Dalia, sweetie. Never heard of Drosselmeyer?”

“Afraid not.”

“Mmm, not like you’d have much of a need for a toy craftsman in your field, huh?” The elf adds.

“Not...really.” He concedes. “Are you-?”

“Oh no, I’m not the owner, I just hang out here and shamelessly mooch.” The elf does a bow. “Tasar the tailor, at your service.”   


“I think he has even  _ less  _ of a need for a tailor,” Dalia says, elbowing him out of the way. “Well sir, we do more than toys. Engraving, goldsmithing...need runes put on your armor? I know another witcher who always needs his runes redone; that armor of his gets beat to hell all the time.”

Geralt blinks, surprised. He’s tempted to see if she actually  _ can  _ add runes to his armor. Besides, he may as well give her  _ some  _ reason for him to be here. “Uh...sure. Here.”

He’s not really surprised he’s wearing his favorite set of armor-he’s starting to think this place operates on dream logic-and she takes it from him, putting the heavy thing on her halfling-height workbench, hammers, awls, and other tools scattered about it. He stands around idly, wondering how to broach the topic. Unlike Regis these people have never met him, nor were friends with him, so they’re not likely to jump at the chance to help him. 

“I’m, uh, looking for some help with Dettlaff.”

Tasar looks startled. “How do you know that name?”

“I know a friend of his. Name’s Regis? ”

That got him a blank look from both of them, and he belatedly remembered that Regis had said he’d never met any of the others.

“...Never mind. Look, I’m on an investigation that involves the guy.” Geralt says. “Do you know if he has enemies? People that know what he is and have the ability to keep a higher vampire on a short enough leash to get him to do their dirty work?”

If anything the looks got even more confused. “ ‘Vampire?’” Dalia echoes, “I admit he’s pretty enough to be on the cover of one of those silly bodice-rippers if you're into that kind of thing, but he’s just a tinkerer. Not a monster.”

“And he’s only ever out for blood when someone wakes him up early.” Tasar added.

_ They don’t know.  _ Geralt’s surprised they hadn't known. Vampires blend in passably well...if they weren't  _ Dettlaff _ , that is. Anyone that doesn't know the concept of what it’s like to lie or deceive is going to have a hard time putting up a facade. “Look, how long did you know this guy? Did he visit this place often?”

“Visit?” Tasar looks amused. “He  _ owns _ this shop. Half of the inventory was made by him.” 

Geralt blinks, taken aback. Regis had given him the impression that Dettlaff was a complete recluse incapable of really talking to people. This spoke to a level of competence he wouldn't expect from a guy like that, but then again Regis had only recently come back into Dettlaff’s life. A lot could have happened in the intervening years since this memory and the present to make him into the hermit that Regis knew now.

“Look,” Dalia said, not unkindly, “I don’t think we’re going to be able to really help you. Why don’t you try Jerome? He’s known Dettlaff the longest. Here, your gear is done anyway.”

She passes it to him, and he looks it over. It  _ does _ have runes in it-not that runes on a set of armor that only really exists in this place is worth anything-so he takes his leave, now at least knowing who he needed to look for.

* * *

“Are you  _ sure  _ this is normal?” Basil said worriedly.

They were both watching Geralt who-from the looks of things-was done mutilating his armor with a knife he’d snatched from the kitchen table. Earlier he’d muttered something about runes and sat up, startling them both, and ignored them to go get his armor from one of the racks. Regis had told him to leave him alone despite him worrying about just how pissed the witcher would be when he wakes up to shredded armor.

“No.” The doctor replied. “But do  _ you  _ want to take the knife away?”

Basil swallowed. “...Not really.”

* * *

Geralt opened the door to leave, and it opened to a completely different scene.

Instead of a warm, moonlit summer night in the strange forest it was broad daylight in a chilly, fall-like atmosphere. The frilled pinks were dead and blackened, killed by frost, and the sky above him was no longer deep indigo but a bright, chilly blue, the sun piercing his eyes brighter and larger than it ever was in real life. He blinked and squinted, trying to adjust, and that’s when he noticed.

It was quiet. The forest had stopped ticking.

He has no idea what that could mean, but he doubts it’s anything good. He frowns and steps back into the shop, and he sees it’s changed here too. The windows are shuttered, once vibrant paints white and flaking, the wooden walls grey and weathered. Instead of tools the tables are covered with ledgers and papers. He watches with a growing sense of anxiety as Dalia chews a crust of bread standing up, while reading what looks like a poorly scrawled note with blots of black from a leaky quill and blots of brown from...is that cats’ blood?-both her and Tasar huddled around it and talking lowly in indistinct mutters. They don’t seem to notice that he’s still here, and Tasar tells her that he’s going to lock up. The elf walks  _ through  _ him on the way to the front door like  _ he’s  _ the ghost in this scene. 

He retreats to a corner to wait anxiously because it’s like he’s been dropped into another memory, but this is more like the scene that had played out in Marus’ cave, everything lit in harsher hues of red and orange; with a strange, flat look to it, shadowless and washed out. Even the sounds are muted, like he’s hearing everything underwater. He can only watch as Dalia locks the till and Tasar makes his way to the front door, keys in one hand and his belt knife in the other.

They meet him at the door, four big human brutes. Tasar tries to shut and lock it against them but they force it open before he can latch it. Obviously outnumbered, he drops his knife and raises his hands above his head, telling them they can take money from the till as long as they hurt no one-and then the club comes down on his head. He drops without a sound, jerking in a way Geralt knows that he’s already dead, but two humans keep kicking and clubbing him-one stops to piss on the dead elf’s face, and jokes made imply that his corpse will suffer worse indignities-while others break open the till with an axe.

Dalia cowers under the armorer’s bench, covering her mouth with her hands, but one finds her while looking for the safe. The human drags her out by her hair and gets bitten on the hand for his troubles. He hisses and pulls a knife, and Dahlia stops struggling and begs for her life. He tries to rape her, but fails because it’s soon clear that sheer anatomical incompatibility is going to make this a very difficult crime to pull off. The man stealing from the till laughs and calls him a faggot who can’t get it up and they start arguing. Dahlia takes the opportunity to hit him in the kneecap with her small pointed engraver’s hammer that was in amongst the papers on the table. It’s small, but still enough to wreck a kneecap for life, and he howls and drops her and she races for the window. Her assailant is screaming and holding his knee, but the one robbing the till drops his coin and lunges for Dahlia, grabbing her by the ankle and trying to pull her back inside the window. She clings tightly to a shutter, which breaks, as does her ankle. She and half a shutter fall to the floor in front of the window; the shutter piece falling with her and hitting her on the head, concussesing her. A crowd is gathering outside-Geralt can heear the muffled shuffling and voices-so the criminals decide to stop fucking about and leave with the money. They start casting oil on everything, and one strikes a light to the oil just as they fled out the back door into an alley, one supporting his lamed comrade.

It’s over and done in seconds, and Geralt’s seen some horrible shit but this is...he swallows and walks out of the burning shop; wondering what the hell was this lurching, strange vision was; where the hell  _ Dettlaff _ had been for this-

And walks straight into a nightmare.

_ It smells like smoke and blood and there's bits of glass crunching under his boots; and all the paths go in circles and he’s hemmed in on all sides with charred wood and twisted metal, chased by whispers and screams of monster, monster- _

* * *

Basil watches, concerned. Geralt is pale and covered in cold sweat, shivering, his hands up to ward off an invisible foe. Regis watches closely as well, a golden vial ready in one hand. It’s apparently an antidote that would forcefully pull the witcher from his spell, but the doctor will only use it if Geralt is truly in dire straits. 

“Is he alright?”

“His breathing and heart rate is accelerated but steady,” Regis says, examining him carefully “So he doesn't seem to be in any danger. Just stressed by whatever he’s seeing or experiencing.”

“I wonder what it is that has him so...upset?”

“So do I.” Regis murmurs, placing a comforting hand on the witcher’s shoulder.


	11. land of a thousand memories pt 2

* * *

A hand on the shoulder is what wakes him.

He drags his head around and freezes at the sight of an ugly face inches from his own. It’s a fleder, and it’s crouched down sniffing him with one huge taloned hand on his shoulder. He is so very,  _ very _ dead; the only hope he has is that this damned trip through Dettlaff’s head means that the fleder here can’t actually hurt him.

_ “Friend?” _

Geralt blinked. He’s pretty sure he heard that, just not with his ears.

_ “Friend?”  _ The...voice asks again, and there's nothing for it.

“...Yeah, why not.”

_ “Friend need help?” _

“Uh,” He pauses, “...sure?”

The fleder nods, and easily lifts him to his feet; butting it’s head against his hand not unlike a dog asking for attention. He very cautiously pats it, feeling more than just coarse hair under his hand. He thinks it’s the creature’s  _ mind,  _ thoughts slow and simple, very faint impressions of wants and needs. It’s not unpleasant nor invasive just...neutral. It doesn't even last long, the fleder content with a pat or two before lumbering off. Weirdly enough, he felt better after doing that. The horror of whatever the fuck that had been was still looming large in his mind, but the nausea had settled. It was a bit like brushing down Roach after a particularly bad contract, and he wonders if Dettlaff does the same after a long day. 

He takes a deep breath and gets his bearings. The scenery has reverted back to the warm, moonlit clockwork forest that it had been before, and looking back down the offshoot he’d taken he can see the little toyshop, it’s inhabitants moving about inside. He frowns, remembering what Emiel had said; about how you’d have to interact with an object to see memories.  _ If I didn't touch anything, then what was that...scene that I saw? _

Frowning, he walks back to the shop and opens the door. Dalia spots him and smiles-that same smile, and there’s no recognition in it-

“Welcome to Dalia and Drosselmeyer's toyshop. Looking for anything in particular?”

He swallows, feeling deeply disturbed, and steps back out without a word.  _ They didn't recognize me. They didn't remember me, what- _

He looks up the path, sees the fleder still ambling along, and decides to catch up to it. Maybe it would have some answers.

“So,” Gods this is  _ surreal,  _ “You know Dettlaff?”

_ “Master. Love master.”  _ It said happily.  _ “Protect big pack, feed us. Stop us fighting. Good master.” _

“What does he get out of it then?”

The fleder cocked its head.

_ Right. Talk to it like it’s a troll then.  _ “What do you do for him?”

It thinks for a moment, ambling slowly along.  _ “Kill bad bugs. Keep away from pink two-legged things. Little ones eat vermin in blood-brother house.” _

Geralt blinked, coming to the amusing realization that Dettlaff and these creatures were a bit like a fairytale princess’ animal entourage. He wondered if the small vampires sang a catchy tune while they got rid of cockroaches and mice in Regis’ hut. 

“And the bigger ones like you get rid of monstrous insects, huh? The really nasty ones.” 

_ “Master not like them. Think...think they ‘disgusting’. Smell bad, no good for eating, but still kill.” _

Geralt smiles a little. “Have to agree.” He pauses, thinking. Maybe the...people here didn't know about the visions-Emiel didn't seem to, and back there Dalia and Tasar were in the shop like nothing had happened-but this creature wasn't a figment of Dettlaff’s mind. It was a real animal, outside of his head. Maybe…

“Does your master sometimes have…” He’s not really sure what to call what he’d just seen, it had almost been like a-“...Nightmares?”

The fleder stopped, thinking. Considering fleders didn't have much in the way of brains, he’s not surprised he has to wait a while for an answer.  _ “Bad dream. Lots bad dream. Not always so much; was better. Not-blood-brother make happy, keep dream away. Friends make happy, keep dream away. Mate make happy, keep dream away. But lost friend people, lost not-blood-brother, lost mate . Now got mores and mores bad dream.” _

He remembers the vision of the toyshop, and shudders. That would give anyone nightmares, but he’d been having these dreams  _ before  _ losing his friends to violence. “Has he always had them?”

_ “Long long time. Remember him not have; but then went away. Back him come with bad bad dream. Scary; very angry.”  _ It made a whining noise then, low and unhappy, and he gave it a comforting pat.

“So, this place wasn’t always...like this, then.” Geralt murmurs thoughtfully. “Something happened to give him bad dreams?”

_ “Not know. Not-blood-brother know, but he gone.” _

Geralt gave him a confused look. “What, Regis? He’s still around.” 

_ “No, _ **_not_ ** _ -blood-brother. He help, teach keep dream away. Friends, mate, help too. But now all gone. Dream back, more and more.”  _ It looked up at the sky, which-for now-was a peaceful night sky. It shifted uneasily.  _ “More and more.” _

Geralt frowned, deeply worried at what this could mean, but he doesn't have the time to worry about what some ominous visions meant in regards to Dettlaff’s mental state. He gives the fleder another pat, and it rumbles a pleased growl. “This is my stop; thanks for the help.”

_ “Good friend. Like to help.”  _ It mumbled to itself, rambling on without him. 

Geralt takes the path down to where Jerome was supposed to be. He wonders what this guy is going to be. Another one of the elder races? A higher vampire? Maybe that one bruxa he’d had to drive away from the guardsmen? 

... _ A witcher? _

“Huh, a witcher.” Jerome drawled. “Nice to see a colleague out here. You better not be hunting vamps though.”

He’s a lanky, tall man with curly brown hair and a scraggly goatee. He has the yellow eyes and scars that they all have, but he’s from the griffin school, seeing as he’s wearing the armor and the pendant of it. He’d apparently disturbed him in the middle of meditation next to his fire as he’s still kneeling. It seems he’s set up a semi-permanent campsite with a small armor repair table, some rough seating, and a good-sized tent. It’s downright luxurious; Geralt is used to sleeping under a tree or in abandoned barns.

“Not really inclined to kill monsters that can be reasoned with.” He says, coming close. “But I imagine you’re of the same mind, being friends with Dettlaff.”

“Nice having a higher vampire that’s friends with all sorts of lower ones. People don’t much mind no trophy so long as you say the problem is solved. And _ I  _ like not having to dig through crypts or sewers. Win-win.” He points to a skin next to the fire. “Have a seat. Stay awhile.”

He obliges the other witcher, settling in. “Dalia and Tasar didn't know what Dettlaff was. Hard to imagine them not figuring it out.”

“They aren't witchers; not like they’d know the signs. Besides,” He stood to go to a nearby table and assemble some food; piles of it. “I taught him how to blend in. Well, insomuch as one of us can teach anything about blending into normal human society.”

“Didn't have much success, I’m betting.”

“Eh, enough. He still can’t stand crowds and Dalia has to do all the interaction with customers, but he’s not quite so maladjusted as he used to be.” He brings the tray over. “You shoulda seen him when we first met. Complete fuckin’ shitshow that was.”

“Really? What-”

He doesn't really get to finish because he’s interrupted by a tray to his face. A blast of aard follows it.

“Ploughin’ peeping tom-” The other witcher was snarling, “How the fuck did you even get  _ in  _ here _ - _ ”

Okay, he hadn't expected one of these figments of Dettlaff’s imagination to realize that he was an uninvited guest. He throws up a shield just in time for a bomb to hit him, grapeshot looks like. He almost throws one back but he doesn't want to hurt the guy, just get him to slow down so he could try to explain himself. 

He grits his teeth and keeps the shield up. “Gods damn it, I’m trying to  _ help  _ Dettlaff, not-”

A crossbow bolt pinged off the shield. “Yeah, real helpful digging around in his head.”

“Well, it’s not like I can ask an unconscious vampire why he’s going on a  _ serial killing spree _ -”

Another bomb hit the shield, shattering it and sending him flying. God damn it, he needed to get close to maybe tackle him to the ground and restrain him, but this guy liked his distance; preferring to take potshots with a crossbow and bombs, probably trying to wear him down before coming close with the sword. Normally Geralt would just dodge and use quen until he ran out of ammunition, but there’s no guarantee that this dream space has any sort of limit on either. Rules are different here, and Jerome’s bombs and other offensive weapons are packing more of a punch than they should. He’s on someone else’s territory and they have the home advantage; the only chance he has is to try to bull rush him and-

_[ “No fighting!” ](https://i.imgur.com/2h4D3aM.jpg) _

It’s the fleder from earlier, dropping in to crash the party. Jerome has to pull his hand up at the last moment to avoid shooting it, and Geralt has to windmill his arms to help him come to a stop so he doesnt run smack into it.

_ “Master no like fighting.” _ It addresses both of them with an honest to god disapproving tone.  _ “Bad, very bad. Bad friends!” _

“Goddamnit George, get out of the-” The other witcher isn't able to say anything else over the chorus of chitters and squeals from a herd of plumards that boil into the clearing. They skitter all over the grass around their feet, and Geralt is briefly concerned he might get swarmed by them but they just eel around his legs like cats. He stays still, afraid to move because he might step on one. 

_ “You stop. Stop now.” _ ‘George’ said to him.

He’s being lectured by a fleder, will wonders never cease. “He started it.”

The fleder looked at Jerome. “ _ Bad brother! Know better! _ ”

Jerome’s face is a mixture of baffled and outraged. “What-but he’s an intruder, he’s-”

_ “Stop mouth-moving.” _ George said, annoyed.  _ “Always talking. Too much talk, you be quiet.” _

“Yeah, be quiet Jerome.” Geralt drawled. Jerome flipped him off.

_ “Promise no more fighting.” _

“I will if he does.” Geralt said.

George looked expectantly at the other witcher. He sighed explosively and threw up his hands. “Fine!”

Geralt sheathed his sword, as did Jerome. He didn't look happy about it, but the griffin witcher didn't seem like he’d attack-for now, at least. Geralt waded through the plumards carefully, and watched as Jerome flopped into a chair with a huff.

“You may as well sit down.” Jerome said. “No need to stand on ceremony if you’re bound and determined to fuck with Dettlaff’s brain. Why the hell are you even here, anyway? There are far better vacation spots; the sandy arsehole of the Koviri desert, for one.”

“Here on business, not pleasure.” Geralt explained. “Dettlaff is in trouble. Someone has been using him to murder people for some crusade around the chivarlic virtures.”

“Valor, honour, compassion, wisdom, generosity and all that horseshit, yeah. Pretty, but not worth murdering for. Especially not to Dettlaff; he liked the storybook appeal, but he’s not one for theatrics.” At Geralt’s look. “I’m from Toussaint, I’ve heard of them. And yeah, it’s as silly as it sounds.”

_ His name’s Jerome, he’s a griffin school witcher, and he’s from Toussaint.  _ Geralt thought, turning that over.  _ Shit, I think he’s… _

“...Is your last name Morue?”

He blinked. “Have we met?”

“...Sorta.” He thinks of the body he’d found that may or may not be some horribly mutated experiment, and hopes to god that it’s not this guy and he had a quick and merciful death rather than suffering that fate. Though if Dettlaff knew him...“Think I found something of yours. Mother-of-pearl container, with a bat and eagle carved into it?”

He frowned and fished something out of his pocket, and it was an identical vial. “Dettlaff gave it to me.”

“Why was it full of his blood?”

“Vampire thing. You share blood with one another to make you part of a pack; forms a weak telepathic bond.” He shrugged. “Obviously I can’t do the same, so he just put it in a vial instead. I taught him my family song in exchange-don’t laugh, it’s a skellige thing from my grandfather-because drinking my blood would just get him drunk.”

He put the vial back. “ ‘Preciate it if you give it back to me.”

“Sure.” If the real Jerome was that mangled experiment. If the other witcher wasn't a total basket case from the torture. If Dettlaff didn't kill him before he could in retribution for lighting him on fire. Yeah, he’d return it. Not high on the list of things to do though.

“Back on subject: serial murder for the virtues.” Jerome said. “Gimme the rundown.”

He gave him the light version, and by the end of it the other witcher was frowning deeply. “So...we have someone with enough audacity to essentially bully Dettlaff into doing what they want-no mean feat, he’s an arsehole when he’s pissed-and the smarts to use the only weakness he has to keep him from going on a rampage.”

“That about sums it up. Who do you know that knows what Dettlaff is and has it in for him? Does he have enemies? Someone that wouldn't mind using him as a tool?”

“ _ Enemy;  _ singular. He’s got no problem with his enemies being short-lived, nor helping them shuffle off this mortal coil himself. But there is one.” He rubbed at his face. “Fuck, if he’s involved…”

“I have a feeling that this is bad.”

“Real fuckin’ bad.” He sighed and stood up, going to his tent. A few minutes later he emerged with two different bottles of wine. “Here, drink these.”

“Not looking to get drunk.” He said. Honestly, he had no idea what drinking imaginary alcohol would have on top of everything else when he was currently on some horrible drug trip.

“And I don’t want to listen to you crying in your drink about how your wife and your dog left you either.” He drawled, popping the cork off. “These are memories you moron, knock ‘em both back. This one first.”

He takes them warily. “You couldn't just... _ tell  _ me about him?”

“You need to know what he looks like and I’m a piss-poor sketch artist. Also, it’ll show you why he fits the profile. May as well kill two birds with one stone.”

Geralt made a face. “Bottoms up.”

He drank them both, one after another, and they tasted like salt and bitter regret.

* * *

This memory starts around a campfire.

It’s a campsite, a small one. There's only two small tents, despite how many people there are. Geralt counts six, two adults and four children. Jerome and Dettlaff crouch next to the fire, the first gutting a brace of rabbits, and the other making simple dumplings. Dettlaff is older in this memory, though still younger than when he’d seen him in real life. He’s in his early twenties he supposes-though really he could be any age-his hair long and tied back in a ponytail. He’s wearing a far different outfit than the one he’d cut him out of when he’d retrieved him from the lake; neutral greys and browns, the cut of them different from what he’s used to seeing today. Considering Jerome had been around some hundred years ago according to the notes in his father’s lab, it’s not surprising to see subtle differences in Dettlaff’s appearance. 

The children are all about five or older, except for the littlest one, which was a girl that couldn't be over two. They watch the adults with obvious apprehension, huddled around the eldest boy-who looked to be about eight- and whose expression is wary and very slightly angry. They are all silent, except for the girl who begins to fuss.

“I want m’ mommy.” The toddler mumbles.

“You can’t have your mommy.” The eldest boy says viciously. “Your mommy’s  _ dead _ .”

The girl screws up her face, and Geralt is unsurprised to see her start to cry. Dettlaff looks pained and goes to her, taking her into his arms. 

“There is no need to direct your ire at her.” He says, voice full of reproach. 

“Fuck you.” The boy growls.

“Old enough to know the word, not old enough to know what it is.” Jerome drawls, cleaning his knife. He was done with the rabbits. “What’s your name?”

The boy sneers at him. “Not gonna give my name to...to...an abomination!”

Jerome arches an eyebrow at the obvious fumbling. “Huh, don’t know what that one is either, do you.”

He walks closer, shooing Dettlaff back to the fire. Geralt can feel his apprehension, unsure of just what Jerome was doing, and the vampire busies himself with getting the girl to calm down by having her help with the dumplings. He keeps a wary eye on the witcher, and so does Geralt. He doesn't like the other man’s tone or his body language; something about it sets him on edge.

“Listen kid, you give me a name or I’ll give you one. How’s shitface sound?”

The boy looks outraged. “My name’s Callum, you...you faggot!”

Jerome’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Rather be a fag than a racist, lynching arsehole like your dad. Did he ever tell you what he did when he went out at night?”

“He cleaned the streets of those knifeared dogs!”

“A nice way of saying ‘broke into a store, tried to kill the people inside, and stole money from a till’. The money bit is the most ironic; your father didn't have a job to feed you with, so he had to pay for your dinner with coins still covered in blood. Or, well, with what was left over after feeding his alcoholic habit.” He crouched in front of Callum. “The tavern keeper remembered that when I went following a literal blood trail that led to it.”

“They were just elves. They weren’t  _ people _ .” The kid sniffed, all bravado, but it faltered when Jerome got closer.

“Did he tell you he and his friends beat an elf until his face caved in?” The witcher continued. “Did he tell you that he was planning on fucking the body? Did he say his brother tried to rape a halfling?  _ Did he?” _

“Jerome-” Dettlaff tried to interject.

“-Or did he try to frame it with more ten-crown-words that his ten-year-old kid who doesn't know their head from their ass wouldn't  _ really  _ understand? Because he’s too much of a tiny-dicked coward who can’t admit that the reason he’s not working some plush, well-paying job is  _ not  _ because some filthy halfling took it, it’s because he’s a shit-for-brains, corpse-fucking alcoholic that can’t hold one-”

“ _ Jerome!”  _ Dettlaff is horrified, and puts down the girl, who has started to cry again. “Enough!” 

“They deserved it!” The boy yelled shrilly, red-faced. “All those knifeared abominations deserve it and worse!”

Jerome slaps him.  _ Hard. _

Gods, he’s just a  _ kid.  _ A little shithead of a kid, but a kid nonetheless-

Geralt curls his lip and takes a few steps forward before he remembers he’s in a memory. It’s not like he needs to do anything anyway, because Dettlaff comes around to grab Jerome and shove him up against a tree. He doesn’t fight, but he does bare his teeth at Dettlaff.

“If he’s gonna start using adult words I’m gonna start treating him like one.” He hisses.

“No you will not.” Dettlaff says angrily. Geralt can hear the anger, but he can _ feel  _ the vampire’s nausea roiling in his gut; sickened by his friend acting so callous. “He’s just a child-”

“You heard what the little fuck just-”

“They were my friends too!” He screamed in the witchers face, and Geralt felt the pain, nausea, and the  _ anger  _ crest. His claws and fangs lengthen, and Geralt can see the children shuffle away, fear in their eyes. Callum too, but under the fear there's a little spark in the one eye that wasn’t already swelling. Hatred-and something like  _ satisfaction _ -glitter there as he backpedals with one hand over the swelling handprint. 

“Yeah, and you weren't able to jack shit for them, could you. No, too busy being a fucking mess, leaving me to do all the heavy lifting. Fuck you.” The witcher says viciously, and Dettlaff reels back like he’d been hit too.

The little girl stops crying and starts  _ screaming,  _ and that knocks the vampire out of his shock. He lets go of Jerome, who shoves him out of the way to angrily thrash through the underbrush, presumably to cool off somewhere else. Dettlaff numbly turns to the girl and gathers her into his arms, a pang running through him when she initially resists, whimpering in fear. Whether or not it’s fear of him is anyone’s guess-Geralt has no experience with children this young-but eventually she quiets a little when he starts humming that familiar tune. It’s as much for him as it is for her, because Geralt can feel the guilt and hurt radiating off the vampire. He’s not sure what Dettlaff has to feel ashamed for, but he can guess it has something to do with the halfling and the elf he’d met earlier. He’d seen that horrid vision, with the gang of humans invading the shop and attacking Tasar and Dalia, and it fit what Jerome had said.

Eventually the little girl stops crying, and tired from doing so, falls asleep. He gently lowered her to the ground onto the rug he’d been kneeling on, and rose to tend to the rabbits, wrapping them in leaves and setting them onto the coals to cook. He approaches the other children, and they shrink back. Well, except for Callum, who glared up at him with his one good eye, shaking a little but still trying to be defiant.

“Watch the food. Make sure it doesn't burn. I will be back in-”

“You're a monster, aren't you.” Callum says, sounding viciously satisfied.

Dettlaff stops and blinks down at the boy, looking so very tired. Geralt can feel it too, and it’s almost identical to the tired resignation he feels when the villagers spit on the ground next to him in disgust after he saves their village.

“Knew it.” He said, smug. “You and him both;  _ monsters _ killed my dad.”

Dettlaff is silent for a long while, and Geralt can feel the-not anger, not resentment-but  _ pity.  _ Pity for this boy that had been taught to hate people for the most superficial of reasons. 

“...You don’t have to be a monster to act like one.” He says quietly. Callum gives him a confused look, but Geralt knows what he means.  __

_ It’s said silver for monsters and steel for men, but really, both are for monsters. _

Dettlaff doesn't wait for a reply. Instead he follows the trail of broken greenery-Jerome hadn’t bothered to be as light footed as witchers usually where-down to the riverbank. Dettlaff pauses when he can see him crouched by the river like a ghoul, the guilt and hurt stabbing again- _ am I a burden, just a millstone, too many problems, too different- _

“Come here.” Jerome rasped quietly.

Dettlaff turns to smoke and slinks along the ground, moving through briars as easily as Geralt can, who can walk through brush or trees like they aren't there. He wondered if this is how vampires feel in their mist forms, like a ghost moving through an unreal landscape. He’s not sure if he should follow-this is almost unbearably personal-but the literal figment of Dettlaff’s imagination had given him this damn memory, so it must be important.

Dettlaff does approach but stays in his mist shape, swirling anxiously a few cautious feet away. Geralt can feel deep, deep worry; fear of his one remaining friend leaving, and some darker emotion- _ maybe he should leave, maybe that would be better, then I could stop trying, just give up- _

Geralt gives the boiling smoke a deeply concerned look, recognizing those thoughts. They’re disturbingly similar to ones he’d had when he’d lost so many friends at Stygga, when he’d not been sure if he’d make it out alive or if he really  _ wanted  _ to. Having been in a pit of despair himself he knows how reckless and destructive a person could be when there was no hands to grab onto to pull oneself out of it. In a normal person he’d only have to worry about keeping him away from sturdy beams and long ropes, but for a creature that had a concept of sucide but  _ no means to complete it,  _ that meant the drive to find an end to the pain had to find another outlet, and that might make him extremely dangerous to the people around him. He would need to be very,  _ very _ careful around Dettlaff, and hope that the man had gotten better in the intervening years between this old memory and now and hope that he’d found some reason to keep going. The only thing that had kept him going after losing so many people was finding Ciri, and he wonders if Jerome is to Dettlaff like Ciri was to him in those dark moments.

Knowing what became of Jerome though, he wonders who is ‘Ciri’ to him now.

“Come here.” Jerome asked again, more softly.

The mist reluctantly solidifies and Dettlaff approaches, sitting down next to him. Neither of them look at each other, and they sit in silence for a long moment.

“I’m sorry.” The witcher says quietly. “Shouldn't have said that to you.” 

“It’s true.” Dettlaff replied, even more softly. “I was-I couldn't help. After they...all I could do was stay in the shop while  _ you  _ went and tracked them down.”

“Dettlaff, getting angry at you for having  _ normal emotions _ like shock and grief is...really shitty of me.” 

“You didn't freeze up. You went after them.”

“Everyone takes it differently. I get angry, and take it out on others.” He grimaced. “And...it’s longer in coming.”

“It’s been three days. Is it...hitting you now?” Dettlaff says carefully.

“...Yes.” He doesn't elaborate, and Geralt knows all about that. The masters at Kaer Morhen had been anything but understanding when it came to emotions. They only taught one way to deal with them: to sublimate them through meditation. Or, if that didn't work, heavy drinking. 

They’re silent for a while, and Geralt can sense that Dettlaff wants to say something. He finally turns to actually look at the witcher. “They were your friends too.”

Jerome stares at him for a moment, then sighs and leans forward to knock their foreheads together gently. “You are a fuckin’ mess, and you’ve got issues, and  _ yes,  _ are are a burden sometimes. I won’t lie to you to make you feel better or sugarcoat it; never have, never will. But that doesnt mean I like you any less, or that you’re any less deserving of being my friend.” He paused. “Not like I’m perfect either. You put up with my shit; so I think we’re about even.”

“But you’re the normal one.” Dettlaff protested.

“Ohoho, that’s a good one. Pull the other.” He laughed mirthlessly.

The moment broken, they sighed and pulled apart. “We need to do something with the children. We can’t keep them in the tents catching rabbits for them forever.” Dettlaff said.

“You’re right. Winter’s coming soon; and normally I go to the castle but...Dettlaff, what are  _ you  _ going to do? I mean, I’d offer coming with me but-”

The vampire shuddered. “No, thank you. I like you well enough, but I’ve heard enough horror stories growing up about witchers to want to go be surrounded by-” Dettlaff stopped. “Wait. The children. You could take them there!”

Jerome looked uncertain. “We don’t just...take in orphans Dettlaff.”

“Yes you do. If you intend to turn them into witchers.”

If anything, this makes Jerome look even more uneasy. “I...I don’t know Dettlaff. Not everyone survives the trials.”

“I’m sure more of them survive the trials than outdoors begging for scraps in the winter.” Dettlaff said bleakly.

“We don’t take in girls, the mutations don’t-”

“Then apprentice her to one of the mages; Jerome  _ please. _ Where else are they going to go?”

The griffin witcher sighed, and nodded. “Alright, I’ll take them.” He gave the vampire a worried look. “What about you? Could you maybe stay with family?”

Dettlaff’s jaw tightened. “My father he...I can’t stay with him.”

Remembering the scene in the cave, Geralt could guess why. He winced in sympathy.

Jerome snorted. “What with our family problems, it’s almost like we  _ are  _ brothers.”

Dettlaff chuckled humorlessly, then sobered. “I  _ am  _ a higher vampire; not like I can’t just stay in a cave like most of our kind does.” 

“I know you can. But I just-” He sighed, and put an arm around the vampire’s shoulders. “I don’t want to leave you  _ alone.” _

Dettlaff leaned against him. “I can stay with my aunt; she’s always remained fond of me.” 

“Good.” The witcher said, tucking him under his chin protectively. Dettlaff presses his forehead against the other man’s collarbone, every breath suffused with the scent that smelled more like  _ home  _ than any other smell- _ like pack, like trust, like family; lost part of my pack but I still have my brother, my brother in all but blood. I can survive this, I have to try; he has no one left but me, I have to stay for him. For him. Have to stay; can’t submit to-have to keep the dreams away- _

Dettlaff shuddered at the last thought, and Jerome felt it. “You okay?”

“Having...dreams. Always had them, but they’re...more frequent. I’m afraid it’ll be like when you found me, I’ll be-I’ll go back to...to being the thing that  _ she  _ made of me-” He stops, shudders again. “I’m sorry. Not fair that I’m-that I’m having this when-”

Jerome cuts him off before he can dig himself deeper. “LIfe’s not fair; anyone who says different is selling something.” He sighs. “Don’t beat yourself up for something that you can’t help batty-fang. Grief breaks even the best of people; no wonder you're having those dreams again.”

Hearing the old nickname helps; a well-worn comfort, and he finds his voice again. “It’s not...it’s not the same ones though. These are...about fire.” 

“Your shop.”

“Not just the shop; the church. Those  _ people;  _ the ones that you…that you killed.”

Geralt can see Jerome tensing, his face growing pale. He can hear the other man’s heart rate picking up from here.

“I don’t...I don’t understand.” Dettlaff says, confused and pained because of it. “They...they killed Tasar; and so many others. They  _ deserved  _ what they got. But...I still have nightmares about it; with them burning,  _ screaming-” _

_ Burning, screaming _ -gods, is he guessing right? did Dettlaff and his friend hunt down the people that destroyed the shop and burn the perpetrators  _ alive-?  _ Fuck he can understand  _ why,  _ but literally torturing someone to death rather than just sticking a sword in thier gut is just-

“But-you were able to...you were able to  _ punish _ them; not just kill them but-why can’t I...think like that-”

The witcher shuddered violently, and cupped the vampire’s face in his hands. “ _ You don’t want to. _ Trust me Dettlaff, you don't want to. I know you don’t like it when you’re out of the loop, you don’t understand certain jokes, but I want-you need-Dettlaff,  _ stay gold _ .”

“Stay...gold?” He paused. “Like the poem?”

He sighed and wrapped him in a too-tight embrace. “Yeah, like the poem. It means to...to stay innocent. Unblemished. To keep some naivety about the horrible shit of the world. Not...ignorant, not child-like; we’re both too damn old for that just...keep some of that and keep it that way, it's a good way to be.”

“But why does it keep me up at night, why can’t I move on? I don’t want to feel...regret over what was done, or feel that it was a horrid thing to do. They...they tried to  _ rape  _ Dalia-”

“Listen, Dettlaff,” Jerome says, his voice low and harsh, urgent “The day that you don’t feel horror at the thought of killing people,  _ even ones that deserve it _ , is the day that you are nothing but the monster that I found at the bottom of that hole.”

* * *

Basil was looking down at Geralt with a deeply concerned look. “It’s been more than an hour. Are you  _ certain  _ he’s alright?”

Regis gave him a bewildered look. “That is the third time you’ve asked in the past half hour. Truly, he is  _ fine,  _ my good man. Why the concern?”

“Ah, no reason.” The man stammered, a bit too quickly for Regis’ liking. 

The vampire narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously. “...Really now.”

* * *

The jerk from one memory to the next makes him nauseous like he’d stepped through a portal, but he’s able to recover quickly. 

When his vision clears, he’s standing outside of a tiny, cramped apartment with a crude sign hanging over it labeled ‘ratcatcher’ in what smells like the slums. Dettlaff stands at the doorway, trying to get the key to turn in the sticky lock, dressed in...well, a very well-worn, threadbare outfit. It wasn't the nice frock coat or even the neutral tunic he’d seen in the earlier vision. He wonders how much later this one is taking place, or if it’s even later-could be before the previous one for all he knows. He looks over the vampire carefully, but he doesn't look any younger or older than the previous memory. Not like that would help; vampires didn't really age after they hit full physical and mental maturity, though suffering through regeneration would make them  _ look  _ older. Poor Regis had suffered through it twice, and he looked like he was in his sixties. Dettlaff on the other hand looked leaner, more careworn than in the last memory, but otherwise the same age as the previous scene. 

“Ah, excuse me sir?”

The vampire turns, and Geralt takes a step back. He  _ knows  _ that face; it’s the same one he’d seen in the megascope recordings.  _ Thomas Moreau. _

“I, ah, I’m sorry-” Dettaff stammers, clearly trying to escape into his little sanctuary. Geralt can feel his unease at talking with a human without some intermediary. “I am done for the day; you can commision me-”

“I am not here for your…” He glances at the sign, which is helpfully adorned with rat skins for the illiterate “...services. I am actually looking for my son, Jerome.”

Geralt sees the metal handle of the door deform under Dettlaff’s too-tight grip. Thomas doesn't notice.

“Your son doesn't want to be found.” He says lowly. 

“I know.” Thomas replies quietly, and the tone is enough to make Dettlaff pause.

“I know,” He continues, “That I disowned him, for being a witcher. But I’ve come to realize that he cannot  _ help  _ being what he is; that casting him out for it was  _ monumentally _ unfair. I have come...to realize that under those mutations, my son is still there.”

“I wish...to make amends. To find a way of getting my son back, whatever it takes.” The man takes a shaky breath, his face looking pained. “I know that you may have heard of our...spat, so I understand if you do not believe me; so take this as a token of my sincerity.”

The man presents a lyre, and quite honestly it’s in horrible condition; Dandelion would be furious at its state. “This is…”

“Arne’s lyre, yes.” He says softly. “He loved to sit at his feet and listen to him play; he wanted to be a bard like him when he grew up.”

He pauses. “I would like him to get that chance to do just that, If he...if he agrees to meet with me.”

Despite what Geralt knows; that this guy will torture his son in pursuit of a cure, all the signs are there-he is  _ sincere.  _ What he’s saying, right now...it’s not a lie. It’s more than enough to convince Dettlaff, and he takes it with the kind of gentleness such an instrument needs.. “I...I don’t know if he will agree to meet you. Even this peace offering may not suffice.”

“That’s…true.” He sighs, then dithers for a moment. “Do you think you could convince him of my sincerity?”

“ I…” He swallowed. “I haven't seen him in a while.”

The admittance comes with a pang of heavy sadness, and Geralt knows with the clarity of dreams that they had drifted from one another; there was a distance that hadn't been there before, every visit from Jerome with the witcher awkward and stilted, none of the easy closeness that had been before. He can even see a flash of the witcher’s face in Dettlaff’s mind's eye; worn and tired, tentatively asking him how he’s doing, if he’s okay.

Geralt frowns, seeing the guilt and shame in Jerome’s expression missed by the less observant Dettlaff, and wonders what’s the underlying cause. Wonders if it has something to do with the shop, or the people that they’d killed or-

“Perhaps you could frame it as a lucrative contract that you took in his stead to keep competitors from stealing it?” He presents a large, clinking bag. “I can even include the payment for authenticity.”

Geralt narrows his eyes at the alchemist for the transparently obvious attempt at bribing the vampire. Of course the meaning is lost on Dettlaff, who has no idea that the guy was literally trying to buy him out. Dettlaff shifts, uneasily chewing on his bottom lip. “I...I am not much use at lying…”

“Please, I...truly want my son back, to be a family again.”

Dettlaff’s eyes soften, and Geralt can feel how much he wants to help. Doubtless the vampire’s own strained relationship with his father is having an influence on how eager he is to assist. “...Perhaps a letter? He’s out handling a contract right now, so I could ask him to meet me there. With me acting as an intermediary between you two it will go much smoother.”

An unrecognizable look that Geralt doesn't like flits across the man’s face. “Thank you; between your presence and the monetary incentive that will almost guarantee his appearance. Could you have him meet you three days hence at fort Ussar, in Toussiant?”

Dettlaff nods enthusiastically and they shake hands, Thomas departing to go plot the eventual torture of his son, and Dettlaff staying to play the role of patsy. Dettlaff returns to fiddling with the door, and despite the handle being crumpled he manages to get it open, and the inside is a shitty slum apartment. He pens the aforementioned letter-pausing quite a few times to gnaw at the quill-and emerges again to take the letter and the cash to a courier business.

That done he returns to the apartment, and Dettlaff kneels on the floor to carefully hook his finger into a knothole in one of the floorboards. With his slitted eyes Geralt can just see the outlines of a trapdoor; hidden to most. Dettlaff pulls it up to reveal bare earth-or what  _ looked  _ like it. Dettlaff passed through what was obviously an illusion, and Geralt followed him through a very narrow tunnel, down into what looked like it was an elven crypt at one point; probably warded with the illusion to keep graverobbers out. From the looks of things this is a storage unit, filled with random junk like candlesticks and metal chain. Considering this looks almost  _ exactly  _ like the contents of his storage chest, he’s pretty sure that Jerome is just as much of an armor aficionado as he is. He’d be amused, under better circumstances.

He watches Dettlaff light a stub of a candle to get a better look at the lyre. Dettlaff holds up the instrument, examining it with a kind of excitement that brings life into the careworn face. Geralt can feel the itch to create, to build, in fingers that haven't bent themselves to such work in so long; a nascent hope building in the vampire's chest.  __

_Even if he won't agree to go see his father, we can still use the money to rebuild. I can buy tools again, a shop again; without Tasar, without Dalia, but my brother will be there, I will have a place he’ll want to stay in, that_ I _want to stay in-_

The vampire opens one of the coffins and puts it safely inside, along with a bunch of other junk and closes it. He gives the stone of the lid a pat, looking happy.

_ Jerome’s grandfather’s lyre-I’ll fix it up and give it to him, and maybe he’ll get to learn to play like he’d always wanted. Maybe...maybe he’ll have his father back like he wanted; he’s told me how much it hurt to be cast out, how much he misses his mother, his home-maybe this is the chance, the break needed, to rebuild, to bridge that distance- _

To rebuild bridges with Jerome too, he imagines. Not that he’s going to get that chance, though he has to wonder how Dettlaff never met his brother at-

Geralt gasps at a sudden pain in his back, hearing an echoing gasp from the vampire. He watches Dettlaff collapse, feels the man hit his chin on the stone of the sarcophages, biting his tongue. An armored form follows him down, keeping a tight grip on a steel and glass-it looks like the bastard offspring of a wooden stake and a doctor's syringe-colorless liquid pumping into the vampire. Geralt watches, astonished, as Dettlaff can do little more than twitch and gasp like a landed fish. He can feel the nausea, the inability to breathe, the  _ terror  _ of the vampire, and wonders just what the hell is in that vial and how it can render a higher vampire paralyzed.

“Silver nitrate,” The form says idly, answering the unspoken question “It works beautifully, but only if injected. As you can imagine, it doesn't get used much; it's a bit difficult to stick a syringe in a vampire. You’re the first.”

The man tosses back his hood to reveal dark hair, a beard, and a pair of yellow slitted eyes. He’s changed, grown up, but Geralt recognizes him. From the way Dettlaff’s eyes widen, he recognizes him too. The other witcher notices, and grins widely. 

“Hello again Dettlaff. Miss me?” Callum says.

The vampire in question can only make a helpless gurgling noise, the sounds turning into stifled cries as the witcher took out a skinning knife and carefully cut into the vampire’s jaw.  _ Venom glands,  _ Geralt thinks. He’d removed plenty from other beasts, but he knows no witcher has ever done the same to a true higher vampire; not like they’d stay still and let a witcher do it. Callum pops the sacs into a jar with a thick preservative inside, the tune of ‘the maids of vicovaro’ that he’s humming to himself only just heard over Dettlaff’s pained moans. The sounds take on a panicked edge as the witcher takes out a jug of lamp oil.

“Coincidentally, fire is a perfect way of getting rid of vampires.” He says cheerfully, sloshing it over him. “I’m sure the irony isn't lost on you.” 

Geralt watches, horrified, as the gurgles rise to a strangled scream when Callum turns on the  _ igni. _


	12. wake me up

* * *

Regime change was a process.

A bloody, messy, process; but a process nonetheless. It had steps that one could follow if you knew the signs. Signs like, say, gathering an army of ‘bandits’; or accumulating supplies for weapons such as extraordinarily effective bombs. 

_Or,_ Damian thought, looking at the reports, _spreading propaganda._

The beast might be dead, but there were still pontificates at street corners bewailing the downfall of unscrupulous men; how they’d _deserved it_ for violating the virtues, the degradation of society into wallowing in indulgences-

Damian strokes his chin, stepping back to view the beast from a new angle, this time the position that included the revelations about the bandits. Well, let’s be honest, mercenaries. Enough that it was a private army residing inside Toussaint borders. As to who _owned_ that army and what they needed one for...well, he can make an educated guess as to the ‘why’ and it isn't good. If his gut feeling is right-and it usually is-he needs to find the ‘who’, and fast.

At first, Geralt’s theory about a virtue-obsessed, serial-killer vampire made sense, even if it hadn't made _much_ sense. From the witcher’s accounts, certain vampires were more than simple-minded beasts and could even be subject to human-like qualities; including the less savory ones like religion-obsessed madness-or, potentially, intelligent enough to know how to incite fear and superstition among the populace in the interest of furthering an insidious goal. Ever since the revelations with the mercenaries he’d been paying a lot more attention to the street-corner preachers. It was then that he started to notice a strange pattern-too strange, and too worrying, to be ignored.

His thoughts were interrupted by lieutenant Janne entering. “Sir, I have updates for you.”

“Excellent. Report.”

“We questioned the street corner preachers. Most are doing it of their own volition _,_ but that wasn't always the case. We did some backtracking, and all of the talks seems to originate with five pontificates, paid good coin. They even had flyers and booklets to hand out.”

“And the literature…?”

“Absolute drivel. The only thing to recommend it is that it’s at least legible, but I’ve read pornography of better caliber. No clues in it either.”

“Well of course. Our perpetrator is too wily to just put their name on it. Was it printed or handwritten?”

“Printed sir.” 

“Excellent. Have you rounded up the printing shopkeepers?”

“Of course sir. Thought I’d get you for the interrogation.”

“Lead the way then.”

“May I play scary Terry sir?” His lieutenant pleaded.

Damien rolled his eyes. “Oh, very well. Why do you love doing that, if I may ask?”

“Scary Terry gets to say whatever regular Terry is thinking. It’s just too damn funny to scare the shite out of people by screaming about needing to pick up cheese on the way home.”

He gave the man a sidelong look. “You have a strange sense of humor.”

Later in the room, he’s having a hell of a time keeping a straight face as the formerly belligerent and uncooperative shopkeeper (“The nerve! I have friends in high places; I pay your salary you know!”) is quailing as Janne pulls out all the stops.

Janne-well, ‘Terry’-flings a chair and it makes an impressive crash. “ _This is taking too long; I’m going to miss the market!”_

He changes his tune after that.

“I-I-I have gambling debts! He offered a better in-in-interest rate if I printed it for him!”

“A description, if you will.”

He’s a decent sketch artist, and they’re able to get at least an approximate idea of the man with the accent.

“Fisstech, highway robbery, gambling...what are they going to dabble in next? Prostitution?” Janne said, strapping on his over armor now that he was heading back out.

_Regicide, probably._ He thinks grimly but doesn’t voice it. He needs undeniable proof of his theory before he announces a state of emergency or brings it to the attention of the Duchess. 

“What did your spies find out about the other two camps?”

“Well, last night one managed to nick in and check. You want the list?”

“Yes, and I want you to focus on this lead for now. Make up some copies of the sketch and distribute it among the men. Tell the men to be subtle; he’s clever and liable to disappear when he figures out we’ve gotten wise to his involvement in this scheme of his.”

“Yeah, his scheme.” Janne paused. “...what scheme, exactly?”

He waved a hand. “ ‘Need to know’ basis Janne. I’ll let you know when I figure this out.”

He shrugs. “Fair enough.” 

Damien dismissed him and went over the list, frowning. Once again it’s the most random, worthless crap. It’s slightly different from what had been found at the last camp but similar enough. He should pay a visit to the witcher for his insight. 

Coincidentally, the witcher was currently occupied with a tangential investigation of his own, though his methods were a bit less orthodox. And...worrying.

“Basil,” Regis says slowly. “Do you have something to tell me?”

“Me? No, not at all. Nothing.” The majordomo was starting to sweat. Regis could smell it. “Nnnnothing at all.”

Regis is thoroughly unimpressed. “ _Basil.”_

“I was just, you know, concerned.” The man stammered. “I mean, between the sleep-talking and sleep...armor alteration, I thought that might be a bit...unusual.”

“If you-”

“A-and it's taking longer than you expected, but you said that was _normal_ so-”

“I _said_ -”

“-And that should have nothing at all to do with how shaky my hands were when adding the drops of blood, right?” He said, voice shaking; probably as much as his hand had been when adding the exact five drops of blood...give or take two or three. “N-nothing at all.”

Regis stared at him, mouth hanging open, and Basil had a sinking feeling.

* * *

Geralt pulled himself out the vision and back to the nighttime forest slowly, feeling-even though he _knows_ the wine isn't real-very hungover. 

“Well,” He slurs, “You’re right. He’s fucked.”

“Naw, yah think.” Jerome drawls.

Geralt ignores him and pulls himself up with difficulty. “If anyone can toy with a higher vampire, it’s the guy that’s already killed him once.” He pauses, thinking. “Question is...why? Why is he having him kill these people? The only motive he had for killing Dettlaff the first time around was revenge.”

“ _I_ can think of a few.” The other witcher said, piling another platter with food-which seemed to come from nowhere, and never ran out-and shoved it in front of him, instead of throwing it at him this time. Geralt decided not to question the imaginary food and took a few bites to wash the taste of those memories out of his mouth. 

“Do tell.” Geralt grunted.

“Same thing his daddy did. Going out and punishing the unwanted elements of society for degrading our morals and defiling our women.” Jerome tore off a chunk of a croissant. “Remember the virtues? Those knights were the symbols of violating them; Dettlaff’s just the thing to make an example of these fucks with the props and shite to get the point across while looking like some mysterious avenging force a’ nature. And, well, without getting caught. Your average run-of-the-mill assassin isn't going to be able to drag a man outta his bed, slit his throat, then pose him with a blankie and pillow without being seen.”

“And the woman?”

“Rhena decided to have an interracial-no, _interspecies-_ relationship. That harlot has to be punished for jumping on some prime bat dick; and Dettlaff has to be punished for the whole ‘stealin’ our wimmens’ shite. Coincidentally, it keeps the latter in check; the punishment is a welcome side-effect.”

“It all goes back to the moral crusade,” Geralt said, thinking out loud “But instead of a religious Katakan it’s a religious witcher using a higher vampire as a cat’s paw.” He sighed. “And neither saw the irony in it.”

“Hard to see anything when you’re up to your eyeballs in shite.”

Geralt snorted. “Thanks for the help.”

“Happy to be of assistance.” He drawled. “ _Now get out._ ”

Oh, right; he was still an intruder inside Dettlaff’s head and Jerome wasn't a fan. However, that did bring up a question…

Geralt paused in the middle of standing to leave, looking down at the other witcher. The man just arched an eyebrow at him.

“...How do _you_ know I’m an intruder?” He frowned. “...Marus attacked me, but he didn't seem to know that I-”

“You’re _still here,_ ” Jerome growled.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the deflection, and would have questioned it but was interrupted by a sound-or, rather, an absence of it. He frowned, and looked around, trying to pinpoint what was missing and that’s when it hit him.

The forest had stopped ticking.

“Oh no,” Jerome moaned, “Not again.”

* * *

Regis was starting to panic.

The golden oriole hadn’t worked-although Geralt had at least taken it, even if he’d seemed to try to _chew_ the antidote instead of swallowing, muttering something about ‘getting the taste out of my mouth’-and he was still under, _still_ trapped in the resonance's effects. Regis was shaking badly, and Basil was looking miserable.

“...Is he going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Regis said honestly, his slow-beating heart trying to batter its way out of his chest. Gods, had he trapped his friend in a dream-world of his making? What if...what if he…

Basil whimpered at his elbow, perfectly echoing his thoughts. 

They both started at a knock on the main door, a gruff voice booming. “Witcher Geralt, are you home my good man?”

* * *

The sun rose, larger and brighter than it ever was in real life, turning the sky a smarting blue-white, the colors of the landscape changing again from cool deep blues and purples to harsh reds and oranges. The forest around him shrivels and dies, and from the center of the clearing bursts a nightmare of brick and metal, shredding the little camp that Jerome had been living in, assembling itself in a disturbingly organic way, almost like a fungus. 

The vision lurches and he’s suddenly inside, surrounded by vials and beakers and glass container filled with all manner of pickled horrors- _Gods, it looks like...like the lab-_

Not quite identical, but enough that he recognizes it. _What-_

Jerome is at the center, trapped in that horrid iron maiden, the cruel curved metal beak of the contraption obscuring most of his face but not the terrified eyes. Thomas stands next to it, putting a few drops from the mother-of-pearl vial in the receptacle of the device, and on the other side of it-

-It’s _Callum_ , and oh _shit-_ it makes sense, it makes _perfect_ sense that the alchemist would hire him to take out the loose end; the only one that knew where Jerome might’ve gone, once they’d finished being useful. The alchemist probably tempted him with the offer of making him human again-

Geralt jerks back as Jerome came tearing out of the machine, howling like a banshee and looking like some nightmarish horror-blend of human and vampire. He goes straight for Callum, latching onto his arm like a bulldog, and Thomas has to jam a large syringe into him. It takes a minute, but eventually the mutated... _thing-_ he’s not sure if this horrifying eyeless creature is still even Jerome-sags weakly, and Callum scrabbles away, downing a few potions. 

Thomas is kneeling by the creature, looking horrified and disgusted, hands hovering uselessly over him. It’s already recovering, turning its head to hiss lowly at him. Callum snarls at the thing, grabbing it by the throat and shoving it into a jar. It thrashes wildly at the liquid in there hits it, but quickly the movements are reduced to erratic jerking, then nothing.

Thomas is still kneeling on the floor, still in shock, staring at the horrifying thing he’s created.

“...I failed,” he whispers.

Geralt steps away from the scene, and the portal opens at his back but the portal looks _wrong,_ it’s red and it’s pulling him in and-

_-and on the other side is another nightmare of letters stained with blood and needles in his back, fire roaring and people screaming, and he can hear what sounds like Jerome snarling about betrayal with a voice that’s choked, blood bubbling in every breath-_

* * *

Damian scratches at his stubble, which had started to grow back with the neglect. He’d been busy as of late.

Presently, a bald man in little sunglasses answered the door. He looked...harried. “M-may I help you, sir?”

“Yes; I’m Damian, captain of the guard. I’ve come to speak with the witcher, is he home?”

The man stopped mouth open, clearly at a loss of what to say. He looked back into the house as someone else hisses something at him, and he looked back at Damien. “He’s ah, currently indisposed.”

“With what, man? I must speak to him, it’s urgent.” He said, annoyed.

“He’s uh...he’s uh…” The man stammered, and Damien can hear another male voice in the house start up again, whispering urgently something along the lines of ‘tell him to go away!’

“Ah, one moment.” The man shuts the door in his face-rude-not that it does much good, Damien can still hear him, albeit muffled. _‘I can’t just tell him to go away, it’s the guard!’_

The other voice mutters something inflammatory, and he rolls his eyes, done with this farce. Damien pulls the door open-pulling sir sunglasses with it-and stepped in. The main room was empty, but just off it he could see an elderly gentleman glaring daggers at him, and next to him was Geralt, laid out on a cot. He...didn't look very good, to say the least.

Damien’s annoyance is instantly traded for alarm. “My gods is he...well, obviously he is not alright.”

“He is not,” Said the gentleman at his bedside, “So, I do apologize but whatever business you have with him will have to wait.”

“Is there...anything I can do to assist? I have a doctor on staff, as well as an alchemist and a mage-”

“I doubt-” The other man stopped, “...Did you say mage?”

“Of course. Should I call her?”

The gentleman looked torn, but when the man looked at Geralt, a worried expression broke through the annoyance. He looked at Damien, and this expression was of a man at a loss.

“...Yes, if you would.”

Damien nodded, and rushed back out the door to his horse, mounting it and hurrying to the capitol. Whatever this was, he hoped he could get a mage in time.

* * *

Geralt woke, and he felt...god he felt worse than the last two times he’d woken in the surreal dreamscape. Every time he wakes up he swears he feels worse, and he wishes he’d just wake up from this horrible place altogether. Dettlaff’s mind really is a worse place to be than the sandy arsehole of the Koviri desert. 

“Huh, a witcher.” Jerome drawled. “Nice to see a colleague out here. You better not be hunting vamps though.”

Geralt rolls his head around to see the camp is just back to normal, and Jerome is back at the fire, kneeling just like he had before. Geralt narrows his eyes at him.

“Cut the shit.” He snaps, annoyed, and drags himself up.

The other witcher tenses. “No idea what you mean.” 

Geralt snarls and stands in front of him, glaring down at the man. Jerome gave him a patently terrible, ‘butter-will-not-melt-in-my-mouth’ look. Melitiles tits, a ten year old Ciri was a better liar.

“What are you,” Geralt growls. “What are you _really_.”

The griffin witcher scowls. “Ploughin’- _fine_. I’m not just a fuckin’ memory, alright?”

“Then what the hell are you?”

“I’m the part of his mind that acts as the referee between the unconscious and the conscious.” Jerome stands and waves a hand over the forest. “This-this is the preconscious bit. It’s got memories, it has routes and rules, it’s got the lower vamps making contact. Everything a mind's got access too but isn't currently active.”

Jerome points up, at what was currently a calm night sky. “Past that, it’s the part that experiences what's going on in the here and now. It’s the part that looks in a mirror-well, if he could look in a mirror-and recognizes the guy in it as ‘hey, that's me’.”

“And the unconscious...?”

Jerome looks uncomfortable. “Below us. It’s host to the instinctual. Some of it’s...okay. The urge to protect your friends, your family, your mate. The urge to, yanno, find a mate-that bit of you that wakes up in the morning and just wants to-”

“I get the idea.”

“-But that’s where a lot of shite gets repressed, too.”

Geralt thinks that over. “...Like trauma.”

“Yeah.” He drawls, and it's a thin veneer of casual over discomfort. “Yeah, I imagine that’s where the witcher trials go for us, huh.”

Geralt flinches, and the other witcher gives him a knowing, bitter smile. He wonders if Jerome ever told Dettlaff-no, he must have, if this...Jerome-in-Dettlaff’s-head knows about it. He decides to move on, becuase he doesnt want to think about the fucking trials any more than he has to.

“And what I’m seeing-those flashes-”

“It’s the unconscious trying to make its way up top. Strong instincts, strong emotions, or really traumatic shit can burst through and hijack the reins.” He sighs. “I used to be better at keeping that shite under control-but I wasn't doing it all by myself. I had Dalia and Tasar. Even after they died the trauma under wasn't quite so bad, and it even got better for a bit; that Rhena girl was a ploughin’ boon I tell you. Fuckin’ it out was just the thing my boy Dettlaff needed, I tell you-” 

Geralt made a long-suffering sigh, and thankfully the griffin witcher moved on. “-But then he found my dad’s notes.”

Geralt’s eyes widened. “...Oh.”

“Yeah.” He said slowly. “Bet you can imagine that didn't go well.” 

“And then it got worse, this-” Geralt made a motion towards the forest, and Jerome nodded.

“Yeah; after he learned what happened to me, and what role he played in it-well, there was a bad break. One of the worst I’d seen; I hadn't seen worse since Dalia and Tasar bit it. And then…”

“Rhena disappeared.”

Jerome cocked his head, and Geralt explained. “Regis told me about Rhena; and how he thinks something happened to her...” He frowned and looked over Jerome. “...But I have a feeling he knows better.”

Jerome won’t meet his eyes. “Her things were gone. All of them. Save one.”

Geralt waits him out, and after a moment he takes a breath and meets his eyes. “A music box. One of the ones he made in happier days that she found years later. It was beaten to shite, but he fixed it up and gave it to her as a gift. And it was left behind.”

Jerome sighed, and turned to face the forest. “I’m tired-he’s tired-of this bullshit; all he’s got left is finding her, just knowing she’s okay. After that-well. Finding her is the last thing on his checklist.”

At the last bit, Geralt feels a shock of panic at a _suicidal vampire_ under his care and scrabbles for something. “What about Regis?”

“What about him?”

“Dettlaff nursed him back to health; that has to take some level of emotional investment, maybe-”

“Oh, he’s an investment alright,” Jerome says sardonically, then pulls back the sarcasm a little, sighing. “Don’t get me wrong-Regis is a great guy, and Dettlaff cares for him. He was hoping he’d help him find Rhena and then he’d have two people helping him keep himself sane, but-well, if he’s honest with himself, he kinda knows that Rhena isn't coming back even if he does find her. At this point he’s going to find whoever is holding her, kill them in the bloodiest way possible that’ll disgust and terrify both him and her, and hope it’ll convince the good doctor to humanely euthanize him.”

“He wants...he wants Regis to-”

“Only another vampire can kill another vampire Geralt. Not like he can just get a convenient bit of rope and a sturdy beam.”

“ _No,_ ” Geralt snarls, taking a fistful of Jerome’s front, “No. I won't let that bastard force Regis to kill his friend and then be hunted for the rest of his days. I don’t care what bullshit he’s been through, I’ll damn well will stick him in a gibbet and leave him there if I have too.”

“You might not get the choice Geralt,” Jerome says, desperately, “He’s been circling the drain for a while, this guy is one step away from another break and this time the bodies he makes of innocent people might be on purpose for once!”

That gives Geralt pause. “...innocent people? He’s killed-what, you mean the knights?”

Jerome is wearing the look of a man that’s said too much. “...No.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “...That fleder I met. George, right? It said something about dreams... _before_ Dalia and Tasar.”

Jerome purses his lips, stubbornly silent.

“People don’t just snap Jerome.” Geralt said slowly, watching the other witcher’s face closely, “Something has to act as a catalyst for a descent. So what is it, then?”

“None of your fucking business, that’s what.” The griffin witcher growls and shoves him off. “Look, I’ve had enough of you peeping into Dettlaff’s head, and I’ve already told you to get lost once, so let me reiterate: Piss. OFF.”

Geralt sighs and lets the man be; this line of questioning isn't going anywhere. He turns and walks to the path, but pauses to look back at the clearing. “Regis is not an investment.”

“No,” The other man retorts, “He’s an insurance policy.”

Geralt clenches his fists, and continues down the path.

* * *

The mage-having introduced herself as Gertrude-is looking absolutely baffled.

“What on earth did you do to him?”

Regis feels harassed; he’s been practicing alchemy since before this woman’s grandparents were born, and the mage has done nothing but question him on the decoction in a rather disbelieving tone. He gritted his teeth.

“Once again,” He said slowly, “It was the correct formula, but slightly...altered-”

Basil whimpers again, looking on the edge of tears.

“I know what the effects are-I do have some knowledge of the man's research-but...my god man, it’s like he’s not actually even here. Trying to prob at him with divination magic points into some other dimension rather than his physical body. Closest I’ve seen to this is when an oneiromancer goes on one of their trips…” She sighed. “Regretfully I know little about that field. Not something I studied honestly, I’m better at things that relate to forensics.”

“Is there anything to be done?” Damien asks, looking down at the witcher. He looks, if anything, worse than the last time he saw him. 

Gertrude stretches her arms in front of her, shakes them, and then touches her fingers to Geralt's temples. “I am going to try to gently pull him from the spell's effects, before he gets any more...entangled.”

Regis gives her an uncertain look. “...entangled?”

“It’s been wrapping around him more firmly as time goes on.” The mage says grimly. “As near as I can tell he’s moving further and further in; if he keeps going he won’t be able to come back.”

Behind them, Basil very quietly bursts into tears, and Regis badly wants to do the same. 

* * *

Geralt kept going down the path, not really sure where he was even going. The potion was still in effect, but he’d gotten the information he needed. He had a name, a face, and a motive. He’d like a location, but if the vampire knew where Callum was he’d have solved the problem himself. Maybe he could go wandering about the other glades, but he’s not going to go poking about in the hopes he’d find more information; he’d invaded the poor bastard’s privacy enough. Maybe it would help to know just what it was that was playing havoc with the vampire’s subconscious, but he’s a monster slayer and occasional curse breaker; even if he did know what it was, he was vastly under-qualified to handle it. Best he can do is very awkwardly bring this up to Regis and hope he can help the other vampire; though that was going to be a very...difficult conversation. ‘Hey Regis, your buddy brought you back from the dead out of the goodness of his heart but also because he’s kinda hoping you’ll help put him down like a rabid dog.’

Yeah. That would go over well.

He sighs loudly, looking up at the peaceful night sky, and in doing so he nearly tripped over a root. He grimaced at his carelessness, then did a double-take. This root was actual wood, instead of a metal imitation like everything else here. It looked out of place, and it interrupted the path in a rather jarring way, the stones cracked and heaved up around it. He frowned at it, then looked down the path to see there was more. He carefully steps around them, feeling the fine little hairs at the back of his neck rising at the sight of them. Something about them made him uneasy in the same way a patch of disturbed earth warned him of a trap, and he carefully refrained from touching them. He keeps on the path, occasionally leaping over a larger root until he comes to another entrance to one of those glades. Or, at least, what he assumed is an entrance-it’s badly overgrown, the path nearly lost in the thorny brambles. He squints down it, but the path curves, and he can’t see what’s at the end. His natural witcher curiosity is pricking at him, but dammit, he doesn't want to violate this guy’s privacy any more than he already-

Of course, that’s when a few vines grab him and pull him in, and really, he should have seen that coming.

* * *

Gertrude’s eyes widen, and she tenses. 

“What is it woman?” Damian says urgently.

“Shite-” She leans over, baring her teeth and addressing the witcher “Come back here you pasty bastard, I almost had you, you slippery little eel-”

“What’s going on?” Regis said.

“One: he’s getting pulled further in.” She was starting to sweat. “Two: be quiet, I need to concentrate.”

They all shut up, even Basil who’s been very quietly having a breakdown in the corner. As one they stare at the witcher with a kind of white-knuckled focus, as if they could pull the witcher back to reality by sheer force of will-and worry-alone.

* * *

“Fucking-I’m so godsdamned _done_ with this place-” He snarls, swiping at the vines with a boot knife, unable to draw his swords when he’s being dragged on his back. Not that it’s doing much good, these things are tough and wiry and even when he’s able to saw through one it’s immediately replaced. Also, he seems to be gaining speed; the ground he’s being dragged over was sloping downwards. He’s not really able to see where he’s going as he’s being dragged through the undergrowth, so he has no idea what lies at the end of this but he doubts it’s anything good.

Then he finally shoots into a clearing and it's so much worse than he could have imagined.

His back is skittering over bones rather than gears, and the smell is indescribable-rot and meat and blood-it’s like a necrophage nest the size of an estate, a huge pit dug out of the earth that he can see all the paths of this clockwork forest are dragged to, lead to, and it sinks to an elevated rocky crag at the center and at the top of that-

The tree, the tree of bald mountain-

He knows that tree, he’d killed Vesimer’s murderer on its top while Ciri took her own little bloody vengeance below, and what the hell is this thing doing here, what-

He comes to another of those twisted roots and he’s just able to sink his knife into it. He hangs on for dear life because no way is he going to be dragged any further. He can see the vines that have wound themselves around his ankle lead down to the tree, and to the hole at its base. It reminds him of a bloody maw ready to devour him, and he knows with an unnameable sense that if he goes in there he won’t come out. This isn't like the tree he knew in reality; where he’d had to face a few challenges but had managed to claw his way to victory, no. This tree vibrates with a sense of menace and power far greater than it had when he’d been there. It’s once bare top was crowned with lush foliage that was glossy and a deep red-black, branches heavy with the magical acorns, the roots crowding gleefully over the dead bodies around him, feeding on such rich soil watered with blood and bone and suffering, the bodies of all ages and dressed in clothing that fit peasants and lords-

He knows with the clarity of dreams that he’s been brought here to join them.

He fights against the roots, trying to claw his way out, and jerks when the corpses around him begin to speak- _“She who knows, she who knows-”_

He turns and looks, and from the opening beneath the tree comes a nubile young woman, bare-breasted and wearing nothing save for a griffin skin wound around her waist and shoulders, her face obscured by a mask of an old woman. The smell of henbane, belladonna, and mandrake coming off her is so strong he can smell it over the stink of the corpses. She spreads her hands, palms up, in a welcoming gesture.

“Come,” She says softly, “He must be fed-the beast, the winter man.”

Geralt scrabbles desperately, dislodging several skulls-a few of which were children-trying to get free. He’s finally able to get his sword free, but every vine he chops sprouts two more. He blasts them with igni a few times, and he’s finally making some sort of headway but that is, of course, when his boot knife snaps. As soon as it does, the vines give an almighty yank, tearing him down the side of the pit and making him drop his sword.

Soon he fetches up at the feet of the woman, more encased than ever, barely able to squirm. “My my, what a strong man you are.” She purrs. “What a feast you’ll be.” 

He tries to stall. “What is this place?”

“The gate,” She answers, thankfully taking the bait. “To the subconscious.”

“And...you?”

“The dream that disturbs it.” She sits next to him in a seductive manner, exposing everything; and the sexual overtones are far more predatory in nature than he’s ever experienced. It makes him deeply uncomfortable. “I’m too unnamable, too ephemeral, to be a memory of a person. For an eternity I held him, drugged into rabidity with concoctions, and fed the blood of innocents so I could leech his immortality, his strength. He never learned my true name, nor ever saw my face, but he knows me and knows me well. Even dead I still hold sway, in learned fears, hate, rage-always lurking, waiting, to take control. No matter how much he meditates, how far he comes, how good of a life he builds, I’m always there and he can feel it...like a beast lurking in the depths.”

She waves a hand languidly, and the vines part just enough for her to get a hand in, so she can slide it under his armor in the most insinuating way. He shudders and tries to pull away, but now he can feel something crawling over his mind as well and-

_It’s like the world slips sideways and all the paths lead in circles, waist-deep in gore. It feels like being in the belly of a vast beast, this hot, claustrophobic, underground hellscape that stinks of bloated bodies pressing in on him. He keeps seeing the impression of a gnarled tree in the corner of his vision, red and shadowed, like when seeing the red veins on the inside of his eyelids. And then there's hands grabbing him that stink of belladonna and henbane and they drag him-_

_-down into the dark,_

_-the dark hell space full of rot and corpses and blood,_

_-hands going where they shouldn't, metal on his neck_

_-The dark-_

* * *

Gertrude fought as best as she could but she’d be the first to admit she was out of her depth on this one. She felt something like fear and despair when she could feel some force creeping over the man under her fingers, drawing him further and further away from her reach, and she knew that she’d already lost him but she just couldn't-

Then, to everyone’s surprise, the mutilated bits of his armor blazed with light-pastel pink, of all things-and Gertrude blinked at the cuts, now recognizing them as runes, the ones for protection, what-?

But she can feel the dark presence pushed back by it and takes the opportunity to push her magic ahead, racing along to grab him now that he is staying still long enough to grab and the terrible presence is being held back by it. She has to hurry, however, because from the way those runes are smoking this won’t last forever.

* * *

He crashes back, gasping like a fish, and looks up to see the masked women leap away, hissing in pain, her hand charred like a burnt piece of wood. She’s lost her concentration on the vines too-he can feel them loosen-and he thrashes like a wild thing, only just able to escape, running like mad for his silver sword and some distance.

“Geralt! Geralt of Rivia!”

A silvery portal opens feet from him, and through it, he can see a wavering picture of a mage, her arms outstretched towards him. 

“Grab on!” She yelled at him, “Before that _thing_ comes back!”

He doesn't know who the hell this is, but one look back at the woman and the tree-it’s huge roots rearing and reaching for him-lets him know he doesn't have a choice. He grabs on, and the world around him disappears in a flash of white noise.


	13. pulling in the heavy hitters

* * *

Damien’s dozing in a chair when he wakes to a finger prodding his shoulder.

“Five more…” He shudders to consciousness. “-What?”

He looks up to see the witcher looking down at him, a little worse for wear but better than when he’d last seen him put into a short restorative sleep by his mage. Going by the sun a few hours had gone by; it’s late afternoon now. He shakes himself, feeling slightly more rested now that he’d been able to catnap. Worrying over whether or not he’d been witnessing a plot to take over Toussaint unfold wasn't conducive to a peaceful sleep. “Geralt! It’s good to see you up and about. Feeling any better?”

“Still hungover, but yeah, much better.” He grimaced, running his tongue over his teeth. “I can _still_ taste that potion. I wanted to wash my mouth out with vodka, but neither Regis nor Gertrude is having it.”

Damien snorted. “Ah, trust me. It’s not worth the efforts defying doctors or mages. But, you are in luck: I brought some wine from my own small estate. Perhaps not as strong as vodka, but I daresay it’ll help.”

Geralt takes the proffered bottle, smiling. “Didn't know you had an estate. You make your own wine?”

“Not the largest, but we do manage. My wife is the one in charge of that really, but she has excellent taste.”

Geralt popped the cork, taking a whiff. He made a pleased hum. “Not a connoisseur myself, but it smells good.”

“You will have to learn, now that you have your own estate.” He says with a smile, and they both head for the dining area to sit and enjoy the bottle, the majordomo putting down a plate of cheese and meat. The man-which he’d learned was Barnabas-Basil, or just Basil-was still a tremulous little ball of nerves, and looked at Geralt like a dog expecting a kick. Probably feeling that he deserved one, actually; coming close to permanently putting someone into a coma even if by accident was bound to make a person feel horrible. Geralt did his best to ignore the poor man and to put any more pressure on his nerves, murmuring his thanks and letting him make his escape.

“...Your majordomo did not mean to alter the potion that put you under Geralt.” He said to the witcher, measuring his words carefully. It would be understandable for Geralt to be furious at the man for nearly permanently incapacitating him, but he did not want Basil to be flogged for it, even if the man would tearfully ask for it to be done. He’d had to actually request the man to stop hysterically blubbering about when he’d be taken to the stocks.

“I know.” He said calmly. “Regis told me what happened when I woke. I’ve been spending the last half hour consoling them both.”

Damien blinks, surprised at the witcher seemingly bearing no ill will towards either. Geralt notices and gives him a wry smile. “I’m kind of used to near misses. It’s started to lose some of its edge.”

Damien snorted, amused. “Well good; maybe now your majordomo will stop asking me to slap some manacles on him.” He sobered, looking closely at the witcher over his glass. “...You are truly recovered then?”

“Not a hundred percent, but Gertrude says I’ll be good as new after a night’s sleep. She put me under to clean the rest of the remaining gunk out of my mind, so it shouldn't have any lasting effects.” He sipped the wine, rolling the taste around his tongue. “Thanks for the help, I owe you one.”

“Then we are even since you saved the lives of my guardsmen.” He says generously.

Geralt nods, then his gaze sharpens. “Funny you happened to stop by.”

Damien sighed. “Nothing funny about it. I needed to consult you regarding some...items.” 

He slid the list to the witcher and he took it, looking down at it with interest. A few moments pass while he analyzes the words, frowning, then he looks up at Damien. “...Interesting grocery list.”

“Even more interesting that it comes from one of the other bandit camps,” Damien replies, taking a swig. “Notice a theme?”

“Yeah; blade oils. Lots of it. Especially for the one we call ‘hangman’, it’s extremely poisonous to humans, elves, dwarves…” He frowns, not liking this one bit. “Damien...are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Depends on what you’re thinking.” He says carefully.

He paused for a moment. “...I’ll understand if you want to keep me on a ‘need-to-know’ basis for something this sensitive, but I _like_ Toussaint the way it is; hell, I like Anna where she is too. She’s a good ruler, better than some I’ve met, even if she wants to have Dandelion drawn and quartered for being the cheating whore that he is. But if you want my help, I’d be happy to lend a hand.”

He doesn't like bringing a man that he hardly knew into state affairs, but the witcher had saved his guardsmen and was trustworthy and discreet enough to be called upon by her highness to take out a creature that could have caused a diplomatic incident had it targeted one of the knights visiting from surrounding countries. He _seemed_ to be a man of good character.

Damien thought that over for a long moment, then finally spoke. “...What we speak of cannot leave this room. The man behind this is clever, well-supplied, and has a long reach from all accounts. I don’t want this reaching him and causing him to rush forward with his scheme before we can catch him and prevent bloodshed.”

Geralt nodded, deadly serious, and Damien continued. “Two of the bandit camps are still active, and what’s more, since the first was taken out, they seem to have gone on high alert. It took everything I had just to manage sending in one spy to get in and make that list. Also, I’ve managed to intercept regular reports that they have been sending out to an as-of-yet unknown person.”

“I did find it a bit strange for ‘bandits’ to be keeping _diaries_ of all things.” Geralt muttered. “But it makes sense if they’re keeping track of events and operations because someone wants regular updates.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, I can save you sending in a spy to the other camp at least. If we’re continuing the theme, after bombs and blade oils it’ll be potions but those are useless to normal people-ours are poisonous to everyone but witchers.”

Damien frowns. “Truly? Then I can’t imagine that they would bother then.”

Geralt paused, thinking deeply. He remembers the echoes of one man's pursuit of a solution to his son’s witcherism, _‘all the mutations, when applied to others, proved ineffective on Jerome’-_ his lab emptied of all that was useful. Also, he knew that one witcher had a history with the vampire that was being used to assassinate people that violated principles held sacred, _already_ knew where the lab was, and the work that went there first hand; what it meant to be able to make witchers out of grown men. What terrifying applications that could have when you had three bases full of fifty-plus men already trained and equipped with weapons. What you could do when each man had the strength and speed of a witcher, plus the built-in ability to permanently put down _higher vampires-_

_What a crusade you could go on with that kind of power..._

Geralt sank into his chair under Damien’s concerned gaze.

“...I can.”

* * *

_“Jerome, what are you doing?”_

_Jerome poked his head out from under the workbench, hair tangled with leaves, cobwebs, and dust. He sneezed loudly again, which was how he’d been found._

_“Makin’ con...con...convulsions.”_

_The other man smiled at him. “ ‘Concoctions.’ Concoction is the product, ‘convulsions’ is a symptom. One that you try to avoid having your concoctions induce in a patient, as a matter of fact.”_

_“What’s ‘induce’?”_

_He kneeled down, to better address the grimy little urchin malingering under his workbench. “To ‘bring about, or give rise to’. For instance, I can bring on, or ‘induce’ the birth of a baby with one of my concoctions.”_

_He motioned with his hand to said child. “Come on out and I’ll show you one of my favorite concoctions.”_

_Jerome’s eyes lit up and he scrabbled out. The older man dusted off the worst of the grime with a shirtsleeve-making the boy sneeze again-and then plucked a stand of dried leaves from a tin. He let the boy have the honor of dropping them in a teapot full of steaming hot water, and swirled it. He popped the cover off and lowered it to be level with Jerome’s nose._

_“Now smell.”_

_Jerome took a whiff, and smiled. “M is for mint!”_

_“And T is for tea. My favorite concoction.” He hummed. “Come, some of these are dangerous. You’ll be old enough soon to come in here and make some solutions, but not today. Let’s bring some of our tea to mother.”_

_The boy took the other man’s hand. “Yes papa.”_

“...Papa.”

Basil’s head jerked up from where he’d been holding it in his hands, looking around at the noise with a nervous sort of bewilderment. He’d been hiding in a corner after being dismissed from the table by Geralt, far away enough to not overhear things but close enough to be at hand if called for. Ever since his employer’s close brush with catatonia he’d been distraught and nauseous, though it was slightly less after Geralt’s reassurances that he wasn't going to be whipped or really face any major repercussions for it, which while generous made him almost wish the other man had at the very least yelled at him rather than being so blase about the entire thing. 

That, of course, meant he was in the same room as the more...violent of the other patients, though he was safely restrained and sedated. Though, perhaps not as sedated as he’d thought. 

“...Papa?” It was hardly a whisper, thin and raspy. A question this time, and Basil approached with a heavy amount of caution, peeking around the screen.

Hazy eyes managed to focus on him. “Papa...lemme go. You didn’t want to see me again, now that I’m...unh…” The words trail off into indistinct mumbles, something like entreaties and apologies, and he struggled weakly against his bonds.

“Tied me down.” The man growls, the voice going from pleading to irate, the glazed eyes growing more intense. “More...concoctions, huh? Needles, needles, always needles-”

Basil licked his lips nervously, debating if he should go get Regis.

“Not your son anymore, so _you_ said, but even so you can’t just let me go.” He snarled, baring bloody teeth through the bandages, “No, you gotta strap me down so tight I can’t even scratch my own arse.”

There's an unpleasant gleam in those eyes, and they’re still locked on him. Basil’s nerve fails him, and he skitters away to get the doctor to drug the man back into senselessness. He comes upon said doctor sitting next to the other patient, carefully tipping a small glass of...he’s not sure what it is, but it’s some black liquid into the other man’s mouth, rubbing his throat to help him swallow. Regis turns to him with an annoyed frown.

“Basil, I did tell you not to intrude when I’m treating my-”

“He’s awake!” He blurts. “The uh-the other one! I’ve no clue _how_ since he’s in full-body wrap, but-”

Regis’ eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “You're _sure-”_

“He called me ‘papa’ and complained about being tied down so tight he can’t scratch his own, er, bum!”

The doctor blinked. “...I’ll check on him then.”

Basil hovers, concerned, as the doctor makes his unsteady way over to the other patient, refusing his assistance despite how he was swaying. 

“You haven’t recovered fully from the attack yesterday, I see,” Basil grumbled. “Would you please just-”

“Basil, for heaven's sake I’m not an invalid,” Regis says, irritably batting away his hands. “In fact, I’m far more capable of taking care of myself than you, so just leave me be already!”

Of course, that's when one of his dragging feet catch on the threshold, and he stumbles and nearly falls flat on his face. Or would have, if not for Basil catching him. The majordomo drags him upright and refuses to let go, helping him to a chair next to the patient with a long-suffering sigh.

“It really is true that doctors make the worst patients.” He mutters, annoyed. 

Regis lets himself be subjected to the manhandling in embarrassed silence, feeling ridiculous that a four hundred-some vampire like himself has to be shoved into a chair by such a delicate creature as a human. He’s cowed enough that he lets the man fuss over him until Basil finally lets him be. The majordomo refuses to leave though, so Regis sighs and hopes he can stomach the sight of a skinless cadaver without vomiting.

He undoes some bandages around the patient’s mouth so he can get in easier to drip the poppy milk in, trying not to give into nervousness. The last time he’d been this close to the other man’s mouth it had been around his arm trying to tear a chunk off. He refuses to let Basil try to dose him though; after the debacle with Geralt, he’s not letting him do so much as bandage sterilization in the near future-

He stops, staring incredulously. 

There was _skin_ under the bandages; _lips_ even. Granted, some small patches of skin had started to grow in select places, tiny slivers of it on his right leg. But this was a large patch, and as he peeked under the bandages in other places, it wasn't just his face. Granted it was a blotchy, irritated shade of pink; pockmarked and wrinkled, but it was _skin._ And it was all over, near as he could tell. How on earth-

He sighs and closes his eyes, knowing what _could_ help a potentially part-vampire experiment recover that much that quickly. He turns as he sees Geralt come in. “Ah, Geralt, the patient-”

The witcher holds up a hand. “The patient can wait. I’ve got some bad news.”

Regis frowned. “What... _kind_ of bad news?”

“The kind that’s gonna need a stiff drink.” He turned to Basil. “BB, go get another bottle of wine, some vodka, and some food. Set it out on the table, we’re gonna have guests.”

Once the man was gone, Geralt turned to Regis again. “There...isn't a good way to say this so I’ll be blunt. Regis, your friend Dettlaff may have stumbled into a plot to depose Anna, take over Toussaint, and commit genocide...against vampires.”

Regis froze, feeling like his lungs were full of ice. 

“...What?” He managed to get out, his own voice sounding distant to his ears.

“I’ll tell you everything, but first I need you to trust me.” Geralt said slowly. 

“I...of course I trust you.” He said faintly.

“Good. We’re going to have to tell Damien _everything._ About Dettlaff, about that guy-” He stabbed a finger at the patient on the couch “And about who and _what_ you are.”

Regis tensed, feeling fear crawl it’s way up his spine. “N-no. I...my friend I _can’t,_ he would surely attack me, expose me to all he-”

“Regis,” Geralt said slowly, “Damien is the captain of the guard here. He has resources and manpower that we don’t. We’ll need his help, and for that, we’ll need his trust. And to do that we’ll have to go with the good ol’ ‘honesty is the best policy’.”

“I-I grant that we should tell him about what we’ve found so far as the situation is dire-” _To say the least, gods, genocide against-_ “But I can’t-we don’t _have_ to tell him-”

“Yes, we do. Because he just might figure it out on his own when you tell him you’re friends with a higher vampire, and because we’re treading on thin ice here already with fishing out an assassin from the lake. We need to get him to trust us and not keeping secrets- _any_ secrets-is the best way to do that.”

“No.” Regis stands quickly-a little too quickly, he sways a little, dizzy-and he’s practically shaking. Being outed to the public had been one of his greatest fears for decades. He’d done so much to blend in, to make a home among society at large; even if it was a tiny, mostly isolated one as a barber-surgeon in a backwoods settlement. “No. I-I can’t. Please don’t ask me this.”

“Regis, we have to.” Geralt came over and put a hand on his shoulder, speaking gently. “ _Trust_ me.”

The doctor takes a few calming breaths, forcing himself to slow his panicking heart. Once he’s calmed, he forces himself to meet Geralt’s eyes. “I trust you. I just...don't trust him.”

“And that’s why I’m calling in reinforcements.” He says but doesn’t elaborate even at Regis’ questioning look. “C’mon, let’s go meet the captain.”

Damien is waiting patiently at the table for them and the doctor cautiously takes a seat. Geralt remains standing, and addresses the captain. 

“All right, Damien. So, there's a lot to explain and some of it wasn’t exactly done...by the book. Some of it’s probably going to damage my credibility with you, but _try_ to hear me out because this situation may already be worse than you thought.”

Damien is giving him a dubious look, but so far seems to be listening. “I...of course witcher.”

“Good. First, I need to make a call.” Geralt says and digs around in his bags. He pulls out a milky-white crystal about the size of an egg.

“Who are you-?” Damien starts. 

“My daughter, Ciri. She gave me this to contact her if it was an emergency, and this definitely counts.” He whispered a word to it and it glowed white.

Damien can be forgiven for a moment of confusion on how a witcher could have a daughter- _wait, didn't he have an adopted daughter? I remember something from the ballads...wait. Ciri. She became-CIRILLA THE EMP-_

The noise that leaves him as he comes to a sort of petrified attention could be described as a squeak. Probably. If it wasn't so strangled. Geralt gives him a concerned look, but he’s soon swarmed by an armful of panicked empress. 

“Geralt! What is it? Are you okay? What’s happened, what-”

The witcher hushed her, waving off the panic. “Sorry, Ciri, I’m _fine,_ I swear-”

“Then what in the world did you call me for!?” She shouted, irate, but her fury was rooted in fear. “I thought a damned striga had laid open your neck again!” 

Geralt smiles as reassuringly as he can, taking in her appearance. She was wearing what _had_ been a fancy court dress, but the skirt was torn off, and she was hefting a plain steel sword clenched in one hand. He has a feeling that she’d grabbed it from one of her bodyguards since she hadn’t time to get her own.

“Ciri, I didn't have a fast method of contacting you that _wouldn't_ give you a heart attack. It’s not an immediate danger,” He put his hands on her shoulders, “But it’s much worse than a striga.”

She calmed a little but looked no less worried. “Well...fine.” She sighed and backed down, then looked at herself, just now realizing the mess she’d made of her dress. Geralt’s amused to see she’s wearing armored pants under them. “Damnit, my tailor is going to have to shove me into another session. I _hate_ being measured.”

Geralt smiled at her, thinking _my daughter, through and through._ Ciri doesn't notice because she’s spotted the terrified captain, and he hastily dips into a bow. A proper one of course, because he actually knows the procedure-Geralt never really mastered it-addressing the sword-toting, skirtless monarch with as much formality and class as he can muster.

“My apologies for the...informal summons your majesty.” He says, remaining bowed and waiting for her to release him. 

She gives him a bemused smile. “It’s all right, ah…?”

He straightens carefully. “Damien, your majesty.”

She turns to Geralt, still amused. “Are you collecting strays again?”

“He’s not _mine,_ ” Geralt defended. “He’s Anna’s. I’m just borrowing him.”

“W-Anna? The duchess?”

“I’m her captain of the guard, your majesty,” Damien explains, trying to retain some level of formal respect.

“You might as well call me Ciri.” She said, waving away his attempts. Damien looks pained at the thought, so she takes pity on him. “Or Cirilla.”

“...Yes Cirilla.”

She lets him be for now, as she’s noticed the third person in the room. Regis is frozen to his chair, looking like a man that would rather be _anywhere_ else, and has no idea how to make a graceful exit. The last time that they’d met it had been under less than...ideal conditions. Namely, when the doctor had been alternately killing and drinking Vilgefortz’s men at stygga, terrifying Ciri in the process. This time around Ciri doesn't look terrified so much as baffled; she definitely wasn't expecting an assumed dead vampire to be sitting at her foster father’s table. 

She turned to Geralt. “...I have _so_ many questions.”

“Have a seat then, because you're not the only one.” 

She gives him a sidelong look, then shrugs and takes a seat. Damien mills nervously about for a moment before the empress takes pity on him and instructs him to, “Sit down already; none of us are standing on ceremony here”. Once they’re all settled, Geralt begins.

“First, let’s do some introductions. Regis, meet Damien, Captain of the guard. He and I worked together to...take down the beast.” He says.

Damien reaches across to shake the doctor’s hand. “A pleasure to be formally introduced; my apologies that I didn't get the chance to do it myself after the, ah, emergency with Geralt.”

Regis smiles at him, grasping his hand. “It’s quite alright; you looked like you needed the rest.”

It’s almost a pity that he’s going to have to wreck this nice little gathering, but there's no polite way to go about this so he may as well come in blunt. 

“And Damien, meet Regis; barber-surgeon, alchemist, and vampire.”

Damien stops mid-shake. “...Vampire?”

“One of my lesser-known occupations,” Regis says, trying for humor. 

Damien huffs at him, then gives Geralt a disbelieving look. “Geralt, I don’t believe this is the time for jokes. I can think of no man more harmless than the doctor.”

“While I appreciate the compliment, now really isn't the time for them either.” Regis gives the captain a wide smile, this time showing teeth. His [_nasty, big pointy teeth-_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkh-IGmMUwU)

Damien jerks his hand away, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword. Ciri casually rests her hand on his shoulder before he can unsheath it. “Calm down Damien.”

“He’s a monster, a blood-drinking freak!” Damien yells. “How can I be calm when he’s-”

“-Because he’s a friend.” She interjected. “One who’s saved my life and Geralt’s, getting burned to ash in the process. One whom I’d thought gone for good- Until recently, of course.” She smiled at the Doctor. “It’s good to see you again, Regis.”

Regis dips his head, looking self-conscious. He had not thought that Ciri would harbor any feelings other than fear towards him, but apparently that was not the case. “And it is good to see you as well; your majesty.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t you start. Ciri’s fine.” She turns to address Damien again, who’s still looking very uncertain. 

“He sacrificed his life to save ours. And this is the reason why we both trust him.” Ciri said, staring down Damien with the kind of...not _authority,_ no. It had less to do with her position of power and more to do with absolute certainty in what she was saying. She trusted Regis absolutely, and Damien could see no lie nor hesitation in it. 

“...Well, as my empress, I trust what you say is true, and so, by extension, I will extend a measure of trust to...the doctor.” He says, slowly releasing the sword. “But I must ask, why tell me of his...true nature?”

Regis can’t help but notice that the captain is looking at Geralt and avoiding addressing him, and tries not to take offense. They’re not going to be friends in a day, or quite possibly ever, but this situation is too dire to take anyone’s sensibilities into account.

“Because we didn't wish to keep any secrets from you in the hopes that extending such honesty would get a measure of your trust in return,” Regis stated. “And as a vampire, I have a stake in this as well.”

Geralt gives him a sidelong look for the last bit but doesn't comment on it. Regis ignores him and continues. “Geralt has informed me that there may be a threat not just to the human residents of Toussaint, but to the vampiric ones as well.”

Damien looks taken aback by that, then thoughtful. “...I see. So, you have a reason to be involved in the interest of self-preservation for you and your brethren.”

“Indeed. I will offer information and assistance that I’m uniquely situated to give, but not only to prevent harm to myself or my own species. Perhaps you’ll find it difficult to believe this coming from a blood-drinking freak, but I believe you humans have a right to live as much as anyone else; and as a creature whose only excuse to drink their blood is for the alcoholic high and not for sustenance, I’ve found that to be a pretty poor excuse to threaten the lives of sentient beings.” He gives Geralt a fond smile. “Especially when they have the capacity to be such dear friends.”

Geralt snorts, trying not to be touched and failing. “Yeah, because I’m the only one that’ll listen when you babble on about alchemy.”

“Get a room you two.” Muttered Ciri under her breath. Damien made a choked noise that might’ve been laughter, and finally relaxed. Well, as much as he could be in a room that had both a vampire and empress in it at once and a potential plot to overthrow Toussaint looming. He was going to get very, _very_ drunk at his estate after all this.

“Look, if you two are _quite_ done talking each other up, will someone start with the explanations then?” Ciri said. “Because the court back home is probably panicking. I should get back before Morvran has a heart attack.”

“I still can’t believe you married that hatchet-faced guy-” Geralt muttered, taking a seat.

“ _Geralt-”_

“Okay, okay.” He sighed and started. “All right, you remember that contract Anna sent me on?” 

“What, the one where I had to forward it to you because you were being an ass?”

“I was on vacation.” He grumbled.

“For three years?”

“Extended vacation. I _deserved_ that after the damned wild hunt and everything else.”

She rolled her eyes and he continued. “Anyway, let’s get you up to speed as to what happened _after_.”

“As it turns out, there was a pattern to the killings. Didn't really appear until the third knight was killed though, just before I arrived. Each man was killed in a specific way, in relation to the knightly virtues-they were posed, and each given props. All without witnesses, or with broken locks. Turns out it was a vampire.” Geralt explained. “You remember lessons in Kaer Morhen? Where the higher vampires can-”

“-Mist, yeah. They’d make the ideal assassin for something like that.”

“Indeed your high-ah, Cirilla,” Damien added. “Thankfully, the fourth victim had been sent to meet Geralt and explain the situation; and he was hit by a horse cart. Due to his injuries, he was forced to remain behind. It was a stroke of blind luck, pure happenstance, or else he would have been most certainly killed at the party he was slated to attend.” The captain gestured to Geralt. “Instead, the witcher took his place and was able to give my guardsman the means to arm themselves against the beast. We set a trap, and were successfully able to kill the beast.”

“For now.” Muttered Ciri. Damien gave her a worried look.

“...’For now’? But...the creature was lit on fire and sent cavorting down a hillside into a lake. It’s no stake to the heart, but I doubt that would make much difference.”

“It makes a difference in how fast it comes _back._ ” She sighs and starts rubbing at her temples. “Is _this_ the emergency? You want me to throw him into the sun through one of my portals, is that it? You _could_ have just sent me a letter you know; vampires heal fast but they don’t heal _that_ fast.”

Damien is giving her an incredulous look-probably wondering if she actually _could-_ but Geralt shakes his head. “No. Sure, an angry serial-killing vampire on the loose is bad, but this is arguably worse, because I don’t think he was working all on his lonesome.” 

“I concur,” Damien interjected. “Your maj-ah, Cirilla, after the vampire was...disposed of, I found it curious that there were street corner preachers that continued their caterwauling about a ‘righteous beast punishing men for forsaking the virtues’, and that their preaching was so perfectly fitting the murders.” He pulled up a sheaf of papers. “I found it doubly so that they had started their racket about the degradation of society _just_ before the attacks.”

He passes her a selection of flyers, and she looks over them with a raised eyebrow.

“These started to circulate just before the attacks. Once a murder happened, in less than a day the next, updated batch would go out. Curiously, in talking to the man that printed them, he printed them...in _advance_. These flyers had details matching each murder already printed out ready to go weeks before the killings happened.”

“I mean, that makes sense. You told me each man was killed in a specific place at a specific time, and the killer posed them with props.” Ciri says, flipping through them. “From the sound of these, the killer was trying to make a point. He had a plan.”

“True,” Damien said. “But even more curious is that this man has connections to gambling business-the printmaker he employed? He was told he’d be given a lower interest rate for his debts. My men found that this man has been spotted in connection with all sorts of illicit activity, and-” He pulled out a sketch, “He has been spotted active _after_ our vampire went for a tumble. You say they heal fast? Well, I doubt he heals fast enough to be out and about the next day harruanging wine merchants.”

Ciri frowns, taking the sketch. “...So the vampire has an accomplice.”

“Or he’s being used as a cat’s paw.” Geralt said slowly. “And after that potion, I think I know by who, and why.”

“Potion?” Damien blinked, then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “...Do you mean the one you just had to be pulled from? Geralt, what on earth have you been up to?!”

“Way too damn much.” Geralt mutters, then continues. “Look Damien, you weren't close enough to the vampire when we caught him to hear it, but he was begging for mercy. Not for him, no. For someone else. He said, specifically, ‘they’ll kill her’.”

Damien’s eyebrows went up. “ ‘Her’? There's a woman involved?”

“A hostage,” Ciri says slowly, looking over the sketch. “Because higher vampires? They’re _dangerous_. Really dangerous. Damien, you and your men got very lucky that you caught it by surprise. These monsters can tear through an entire village in minutes. The only time I’ve heard of them being taken down is when witchers work as a team. So,” She tapped on the table, thinking. “To keep a vampire on a leash, you keep a hostage. I’m guessing with the fact that they’re a ‘her’ she’s his girlfriend, right?”

Regis nibbled at his lower lip nervously. “Ah, her name is Rhena.”

Both Ciri and Damien stared at him.

“Regis,” Ciri said slowly, “...You knew him, didn't you.”

The doctor was clearly uncomfortable under their combined gaze, especially Damien’s suspicious one. “I...do, yes.”

“How, Regis?” Ciri asked.

“After Stygga-where I was burnt to ash-” He elaborated for the captain's sake “I was...essentially trapped in something very like your human’s accounts of purgatory. I had no conscious thought, no waking nor sleeping, only a sense of...being cold, dark, and terrified. I would have remained there for years, or perhaps even longer-there are accounts of our kind remaining such for decades, up to a _century_ sometimes-had another of my kind not found me. Dettlaff-or ‘the beast’-as you know him, nursed me back to the land of the living at great personal expense, paid in his own blood.”

Damien frowned. “Why would he do such a thing? Did he owe you a debt of some kind?”

“Nothing of the sort. He did so only because he knew that I needed help, and he had the ability to give it. He is quite empathetic, and this is not the first instance of such feelings, nor does his empathy stop at vampires. He once killed a fiend-the so-called ‘brute of lyria’-because it had butchered a human boy that gave him an apple, with no thought of being repaid for the gesture of kindness. He dumped its corpse at the feet of a local poacher, starting the legend.” Regis stated, trying to interject as much sincerity as possible to counter Damien’s dubious expression. “You humans don’t have a monopoly on altruism.” 

“Perhaps, but I find it difficult to reconcile that with the beast that slaughtered these knights.” Damien retorted.

“As do I,” Regis said, honestly. “Two weeks ago, my friend, Dettlaff, started to behave...oddly. He avoided me for two days. He is not very capable of lies nor in concealing his emotions, so I could see that something was bothering him but he refused to enlighten me despite my prodding. One morning I awoke to find him gone, with only a cursory letter explaining that he’d had to leave. No details on why. I pursued him to Toussaint, but once there I could not locate him until you and your men had already sent him to the bottom of the lake.”

He gathered himself, taking in a breath. “Please understand, my friend Dettlaff-he is...not the type to go on a crusade. At all. He is habitually shy and very withdrawn. He avoided people like the plague and crowds made him deeply uncomfortable. The only human he really associated with was Rhena, who knew what he was, but she and he parted ways before we met. I plead with you to understand that he is but a pawn in this, held captive by a man that uses his one weakness to force him to kill. Should we rescue his one-time lover, he’ll have no reason to continue killing-”

“I am unconvinced,” Damien growled. “I’ve no reason to believe what you say of the man’s character.”

“If his testament won’t, the evidence does,” Ciri argued. “You said yourself, this man-” She tapped the sketch “Was the one ordering the flyers. Think, Damien. Regis may be a suspect source to you, but a man keeping a hostage to force a vampire to serve as his means of furthering his insane motive fits too well.”

Damien looks like he wants to argue, but a combination of logic and Ciri’s authority is enough to make him give in with a frustrated sigh. “Very well. I will...go along with this theory, as it’s the best available _so far._ However, _I’ve_ a concern: if she’s being held captive by just such a man, and his reason to _keep_ her captive is ‘dead’, who's to say he’s still keeping the former lover of a highly dangerous creature _alive_?”

Silence falls over the table. It’s a sobering thought. 

“...Fuck.” Geralt growls.


	14. bat's outta the bag

* * *

Ciri sighs, leaning back. “Okay. So, we have a man that’s using a vampire to go on a crusade that may or may not have disposed of a hostage that happens to be the former girlfriend of a creature that’s highly dangerous, even if he’s currently at the bottom of a lake. Am I missing anything?”

“How about a potential plot to overrun Toussaint with a bunch of horribly mutated witcher knock-offs?” Geralt drawls. 

_ That  _ gets everyone’s attention, Damien’s especially. His eyes widen in recognition. “...The potions. You said only...my god man, do you really think-”

“I do. And this is the entire reason I wanted to come clean to you Damien, because as I said, I  _ like  _ Toussaint the way it is; and you need to know about everything to keep it that way.”

“Hold on, back up,” Ciri says, holding up a hand. “Someone explain.”

“Your m-Cirilla, I’ve been recently inspecting bandit camps, as they were...rather unusual. We had three of them-though one was taken out-all  _ far  _ too well-armed for mere bandits; with the curious habit of raiding local merchants for...unusual supplies.” Damien starts.

“The first camp, the supplies looked to be witcher bombs. Sure, not something we share the secrets for, maybe just a coincidence that they had silver dust and saltpeter.” Geralt said. “The second though, is where we see a theme: dog tallow, ducal water, excetra...everything you need for blade oils. If we continue the theme, the third would be potions.”

“But those can only be used by witchers...” Ciri said slowly. “But...Geralt, they can’t possibly get an army of them, that’s just-!”

“Hold that thought.” Geralt says. The witcher leaves, then comes back with a sheaf of papers. “A while back Yen told me of an alchemist here in Toussaint that studied witcher mutations. I went to the lab to see if there was anything useful, but someone got there first.”

He passes the papers to the captain, and Damien looks them over but can’t really make heads nor tails of it. Near as he can tell it has something to do with alchemy; not that he’s anything of an authority on such things.

“This is one of the things I could salvage from there; well, that and some poor bastard that was the victim of these experiments. I had to return here with him and hand him over to Regis, but when we went back to find more information so we could treat him everything was gone. And I mean everything; including the alchemist’s equipment.” He tapped the papers. “When I went there for the first time, I faced off with another witcher that mentioned he was working for an alchemist-and now we’ve got these bandit camps stuffed to the gills with witcher weapons? Too good of coincidence.”

Damien looked over the papers, confused. “But...what do witcher mutations have to do with-?”

“Tomas Morue found a new way of introducing mutations; one that was less invasive. He tested it on  _ multiple  _ people.” Geralt sat, and took a deep, fortifying swill of the wine. “Look, this isn't common knowledge, and I’d rather you didn't tell a lot of people about it.”

“You’ve my word.”

“Alright. You ever wonder why rulers don’t have an army of witchers? I mean, what king wouldn’t want a secret service of deadly warriors that are hard as hell to kill? One of us is worth a dozen regular soldiers at least.” 

“I’ve never wondered before, but I am now. I imagine it’s because you don’t give up your secrets easily?”

“That’s  _ one  _ reason, but it’s not like someone can’t just find a way of stealing them. Hell, the leader of the Flaming Rose, Jacques de Aldersberg, did just that. He even made some soldiers of his own.” Ciri stated.

“If you can call them that.” Geralt grunted. “Really, they were nothing more than flesh golems. Big, strong, but slow-in both senses of the word; the things only understood simple orders. And he could only make a few at a time. Great for inspiring shock and awe, terrible for any actual practical applications.”

“And not something that would work here; The Eternal Fire is purely a northern thing. Her grace expressly forbids that asinine cult from being practiced within our borders, and Toussiantois are not ones for religious zealotry. I imagine a few club-swinging mutants will not be enough to cow the powerful nobles.” Damien mused. 

“Exactly.” Ciri agreed. “ _ But  _ if you swapped out a handful of mutated soldiers for a centuria of mercenaries-turned-witchers…”

The captain nodded. “I see. So, why  _ haven't  _ kings aspired to do just that?” 

“Multiple reasons. One, you have to start it early on the prospective witchers-just as they’re starting puberty. Unfortunately, that means it will take  _ time  _ for you to get a witcher. No king has the time to wait for a child to take to the mutations,  _ then  _ grow into maturity. It takes, at a minimum, six to eight years for a witcher to head out on the path after starting it. Secondly, it has a high mortality rate-though if someone is truly ruthless enough, I can’t imagine that would bother him much. Not like there's a dearth of orphans around to use.” Geralt explains. 

Damien grimaced, hating the thought of such mercilessness, but not unfamiliar with its existence in his long years as a guardsmen. “So, in a word, it’s slow and inefficient. It’s not cost-effective enough for anyone to be interested.”

“But,” Geralt tapped the papers, “This man was experimenting with mutations...on  _ adults.” _

Both Damien and Ciri do a double-take at that. If one managed to remove the biggest obstacle keeping the witcher mutations from being used- 

“Did it...work?” Ciri says slowly.

“Seeing as how he said that ‘mutations that worked on individuals’ in a recording I watched, very likely.” He shook his head. “Regis hasn't had the chance to go through these notes, but considering that there's this sudden interest in this man’s research after nearly a hundred years and what’s on that list...well.”

Damien stared at the sheaf of papers, feeling a slow sense of horror creep up his spine. These mercenaries, by themselves, weren't enough to take over Toussaint. Perhaps enough to cow the local populace if her majesty was killed and supplanted by a usurper, but not enough to  _ hold  _ power long enough to become established, and to have the proper amount of clout to negotiate with Nilfgaard. Even if they took advantage of the fact that the empire was tired from the northern wars and rebuilding multiple northern states, they would need more power, more  _ men  _ to make it  _ just  _ enough of a bother to have to kill a usurper, rout the supporters, and establish a new ruler. But if each of them were enhanced so that each man was worth at least a dozen trained soldiers that would essentially multiply their numbers a dozen fold. And  _ that  _ was a proper army. 

This was swiftly turning into a horrible, horrible storm that was about to come down on him like a lightning bolt. Damien groaned and held his head in his hands. “I don’t have enough people on my own for this, damn it.” He said, grimacing. “We’re a duchy of Nilfgaard; we’ve no standing army!”

“Well, good thing you have me then, huh? Morvran hasn't had to suppress a rebellion in ages, and he’s getting bored. I’m sure he’d be happy to lend you a few thousand men.” Ciri says, reassuringly, then turns to Geralt with a wry look on her face. “This is what you called me in for, isn't it? To get the calvary; literally.”

“I mean, you might still have to throw Regis’ friend into the sun-” The doctor gives him a very unamused look “-but yeah, figured Damien needs a way to jump over all the red tape.”

Damien sighs in an exasperated way. “You-oh, blast it, I admit that this is far faster and more efficient than sending in a report and having it questioned, not to mention additional information that-to put it lightly-makes a vast amount of difference in the investigation. But-” He stabbed a finger at Geralt. “This is all information that doesn't carry the kind of concern that you seemed to have earlier.  _ What  _ is it that you have in reserve that you were so worried about? Don’t think I forgot your earlier comment about that potion that almost sent you into a coma.”

“ _ Coma-?  _ God damn it Geralt, I thought the near-brushes with death were supposed to be over when you went on vacation!” Ciri yelled.

“Oh, you and me both, but fate is a fickle bitch.” Geralt muttered. “Alright Damien, about that potion: I found one of the vampire’s hands at the scene. Turns out, there's  _ lots _ of things you can do with discarded body parts that are only  _ slightly  _ less shady than necromancy.”

“Like brewing resonance,” Regis added. “I did not lie to you about its effects Damien. This potion was to help Geralt see the most recent, intense memories of the man it was made from; you can verify that with your mage, she’s familiar with it. We’d hoped to get some clue on why Dettlaff was acting out these murders.”

“Yes, but I  _ gather  _ that sending Geralt into a coma was unplanned,” Damien growled. 

“Nor was getting bitten by a man that was the subject of Tomas’ experiments.” Regis pulled up his sleeve and both the captain and Ciri’s eyes widened at the knotted scar twisting its way across the doctor’s arm. “This, dear captain, was given to me by one of my patients.” 

“Regis that-but you heal so quickly! You shrug off arrows without a mark on you, what on earth happened to your arm?” Ciri said, looking concerned.

“Remember me mentioning that I pulled out one of the victims of the alchemist’s experiments out of the lab? Well, he tried to take a chunk out of Regis.” Geralt explained.

The doctor smoothed down his sleeve. “Yes, and I have reason to believe that this poor man was given higher vampire mutations. He attacked me just before I was able to add the last ingredient to Geralt’s potion, and his bite was highly venomous. I was able to instruct Basil on finishing the brew, but he was understandably...shaken from the attack on my person. He added too much of the last ingredient. I was only just clinging to consciousness at the end of it, so I was not as vigilant as I should have been.”

“ ‘Venomous’? I gather your kind isn’t susceptible to much, this...experiment must secrete quite a potent substance.”

“It’s not the potency that is worrying, it’s the type,” Regis explained. “We vampires can only be permanently killed by one thing: the bite of another. As such it’s strictly forbidden to do so; to bite another of our kind carries the price of being an outcast, to be attacked on sight by all others. But this...man, experiment,  _ creature,  _ call him what you like, secretes something very like it. In fact, it’s similar enough that I might have died, if not for the quick thinking of Geralt.”

“And this creature...is the result of the experimentation of a man whose equipment and notes all went coincidentally missing,” Damien said slowly. “Ah. It begins to make sense.”

Regis nodded. “Indeed.” 

“Still,” Damien addressed, “Do you think he’ll have the time to spare between the takeover and knights to go after an  _ entire species  _ of dangerous creatures?” 

“And  _ this  _ is where the potion comes in.” Geralt said. “While I was under, I found out Dettlaff has an enemy, a witcher with a serious grudge against him, and rather...conservative views, ones that he acquired while being a kid in some eternal fire cult-you know, the one that was burning ‘witches’ and non-humans a few years back under Radovid’s reign. Killing men that violated the virtues and hunting down vampires? Just the kind of crusade he’d love to go on. Hell, he’s already ‘killed’ a vampire once-Dettlaff. Lit him on fire- _ after  _ taking his venom glands. No mean feat.”

“How do you know he’s the man behind this then?”

“Because,” Geralt said slowly, “He knows where the lab is. He was helping Tomas-the alchemist-with his experiments. And we found a vial of Dettlaff’s blood in it.”

“Blood-the  _ mutations _ -” Ciri said.

“-Came from that vial. And they were applied to the subject I found in Tomas’ lab.”

“You’ve the subject, yes? You said that you brought him back.” Damien asked.

“Yeah. I’d offer taking a look, but you’d probably throw up. He doesn't exactly have skin-Tomas tried to euthanize him after he went ballistic in the lab by popping him in a vial of some kind of acid. Didn't work though.”

Damien is unfazed by this. “I’ve seen many a body when I was a guardsmen in the city before becoming captain of her grace’s personal guard. Few were in pristine condition.” 

Geralt smiles a little, amused. “Knew it. You’re too much of a hard-ass to be appointed as her guard on good blood alone.”

Damien snorted. “Oh please; her Grace knows better than to hand out positions of such importance to just some unqualified noble.”

“Well, thankfully we needn't worry about offending anyone’s sensibilities. I just visited the man before this meeting, and he’s actually awake.” Regis added.

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up. “What, the science experiment? Isn’t he still missing  _ skin?” _

“Not anymore, courtesy of my unwilling donation.” Regis said, running a finger over his arm absentmindedly. “Apparently, my blood does wonders for the skin.”

Geralt bared his teeth. “Yeah? Well, I’m sure some  _ igni  _ would do wonders for everything else if he tries it again.”

Regis manages a strained smile. “I appreciate the concern, but I don’t think it’s needed. He’s quite a bit less aggressive, though he is moderately annoyed by-in his words-‘being tied down so tight I can’t scratch my own ass.”

Geralt blinked. “He’s actually lucid enough to  _ talk?” _

Regis made a ‘so so’ gesture. “If one uses the term loosely.”

Damien frowns. “...So we could try to question him.”

“I...suppose.” Regis gave the captain a puzzled look. “Though what you would even ask him is beyond me.”

Damien waves away the doctor's concerns. “I’m the investigator, my good man, I’ll find something. Though what I could get that could be of any use out of the man is...uncertain. Still, I would like to try.”

They follow Geralt into the other room. Both Damien and Ciri arch an eyebrow at the chains, but otherwise don’t comment as Geralt pulls off the bandages around the man’s head and face. It’s not a pretty face by any stretch, but it is a  _ face,  _ which is more than he’d had the last few days. Geralt pauses as the last of the bandages come off, looking over the face carefully, but it’s still so mutilated that he can’t really tell if this is…

_ Well,  _ He puts thumb and forefinger on the top and bottom eyelids,  _ let’s see if you have the same puss peepers we all do- _

* * *

_ Don’t bother killing them first-don’t bother-don’t bother- _

_ Flames flare up and it feels so good, so fucking good because that’s exactly what they deserve, what they get for Dalia and Tasar- _

_ But then they start screaming, faces twisted and horrified and the smell of burning meat hits him along with what he’d just done- _

_ No, no, no, this is bad no- _

_ Dettlaff in the corner all fangs and claws and wide, wide eyes, cowering and shielding the children and his mouth is moving with no sound but he can hear it- _

_ Monster. Monster. Monster- _

_ He can see it too, reflected in the blood on the floor, an eyeless horror that has no face, just a maw, a wide maw with teeth like glass shards, like broken bones and rusted nails- _

* * *

Geralt jumps back, snatching his hand away. He instinctively takes up a blocking position, grabbing Regis to pull behind him where he’ll be shielded. Behind him he hears gasps and the sound of steel being unsheathed, and there's a breathless moment where they all stare at the patient as he thrashes on the cot against his restraints. Weakly, yes, but still he moves, a low hiss curling around the room from the nightmare mouth. It reminds him of sirens when their faces shift as they go in for the kill, their toothed maws swallowing their faces, leaving a huge gape filled with needle teeth.

It only lasted a moment before the man shudders and subsides, going slack, his face returning to normal. He mutters something indistinct that might be ‘monster’, but he doesn't repeat it, falling back into silence. Geralt relaxes incrementally, looking over to see both Damien and Ciri lowering their swords, Regis behind them. 

“Regis, give me the poppy vial. I’ll dose him so he doesn't pull that again.”

The doctor jerks, looking at him with too-wide eyes, and after a moment takes out the vial with shaking hands. 

“Two drops under the tongue. Try to be careful.” Regis says, trying for a light tone; but Geralt can see how uneasy he is around this man. He grimly promises to himself to take over the care for this guy for Regis’ peace of mind, no matter how good the straps are.

He drips it into the man’s mouth, the patient quiet under his hand this time. He doesn't try checking the eyes again, he’d seen the sliver of gold just before he’d tried to bite his fingers off, and that combined with him seeing the griffin witcher stuffed into a jar in that vision pretty much confirmed it. This poor bastard was Jerome, though how well Dettlaff would take the news that his adopted brother-though alive-was some mutilated experiment liable to snap was anybody’s guess. 

That finished he backs away, Damien watching him.

“...I think I will leave off questioning him for now, witcher.” The captain said, his voice uneven. He still hasn't sheathed his sword.

“Probably for the best.” Geralt muttered.

As one they move to the main room away from the mutated result of one man’s experiments, taking seats around the long table. They all pause for a moment.

“Well. That was terrifying.” Ciri said. She gives the doctor a concerned look. “Are you okay Regis?”

They all notice his hands are shaking where they’re resting on the tabletop. He swallows, embarrassed, and moves them to his lap out of sight. “I’ll be fine Ciri, thank you. I’m just...unsettled.” 

He took in a calming breath. “Please understand, it’s not just the fact that he could actually kill me with a bite that concerns me. That man was nothing more than a skinless cadaver a few days ago, and now that he’s taken a chunk out of me he’s...well, I wouldn't count what we just saw as  _ aware,  _ but just a few moments ago he was complaining about being restrained. Meaning the people that have this inflicted on them don’t become mindless, uncontrollable beasts-they are capable of rational thought and can be trained and used like any other human soldier.” 

“Well, this just keeps getting better,” Ciri muttered, then shoved the alchemist's notes towards the doctor. “Regis, I want you to examine these and give me a breakdown as soon as you can.” 

“Of course, though I wish I could see the equipment this man was using. No doubt it was quite complex and custom made…” 

“Geralt, did you see the lab before they took everything?” Damien asks, and he nodded. “Excellent. I will make a sketch for the doctor.”

Regis raised an eyebrow. “You can do that?”

“I’m no artist, but I can provide an approximation.” He said. “Granted, my skills lean towards portraiture, but I’ve also sketched crime scenes just before they’re cleared, and events from the memory of witnesses to help with investigations.”

“Speaking of witnesses…” She paused. “Regis, your friend...we need to pull him from that lake.”

Damien’s eyes widened. “B-but, your majesty. That creature-”

“-Is a witness that might have valuable information.” Ciri cut him off. “He was in contact with the man behind this. Besides, he’s going to heal up  _ eventually.  _ It’s better that he does it where we can keep an eye on him and know exactly where he is, instead of trying to track him down through drained goats and peasant girls.”

“Ciri, Dettlaff has  _ never-” _

“-Joking Regis. But seriously, I don’t want him wandering around getting into trouble. Geralt, think you can find him?”

Geralt pauses, and thinks to himself  _ well...now or never. _

“...Promise you won’t get angry at me.”

Ciri blinks. “...Okay?”

He stands up. “Follow me.”

All of them trail behind him wearing alternatively quizzical-in the case of Ciri and Damien-or fretful-in the case of Regis-expressions. Geralt’s was fatalistic, but that was his default expression most of the time, so it can’t be said that it counted for much.

He went into the small annex just off the main room, and pointed at the second patient on his cot. “Found him.”

Ciri stares at the man for a moment, then gives her foster father an exasperated look. “... _ Really  _ Geralt? What did I  _ just  _ say about you collecting strays.”

“At least this one’s less feral than the other. Hasn't tried to bite me once.”

“Only because he looks like more of a cadaver than the other!” Damien practically yells. “What on earth possessed you to get him, and then put him in your house?! Are you mad? Did you forget that you stabbed him and lit him on fire? Because I’m quite sure that he hasn't!”

“Regis asked me to.” Geralt said blandly.

Said doctor doesn't appreciate being put on the spot like that one bit, but other than shooting Geralt a look, doesn't complain. “I asked his assistance in finding out what drove my friend to act so...out of character; and we thought it best to recover him so we could, ah, convince him to stay his hand when he healed enough to be a problem.”

The captain looks like he  _ wants  _ to berate them some more, but Ciri’s giving him a raised eyebrow and he can’t exactly fault their logic, so gives up with an exasperated sigh. “ _ Fine,  _ you madman. Still! To put him in your house, surrounded by innocent people-please tell me that you have some method of containment in place for when he  _ is  _ healed up enough. With a creature like him, it’s not enough to attempt to convince him to stand down and hope that works.”

Regis looks like he wants to object, but Ciri  _ also  _ gives him a look, and he subsides because...well, the man  _ does _ have an excellent point. “Perhaps...your mage might have a solution?”

Damien gives the doctor an exasperated look at that. “My gods, you seriously were just going to leave this to chance? I-oh for heaven's sake- _ yes.  _ **Please** make use of my mage.” Damien looks like he wants to add a few choice words, but only just keeps himself contained. “She may also be able to set up a means of containment for the... _snappy_ one as well-or at the very least refer you to someone who can. Tell her she needs to follow your orders for such a thing as she would my own; she’s a trustworthy sort.”

He sighs and turns to Geralt. “I will have to report to the duchess about all this, witcher. She will be less than thrilled that you pulled him out of the lake on your own volition, even if it coincidentally helped with the investigation. You may wish to keep yourself scarce for a while after this.”

“She won’t have the  _ time  _ to be angry with him,” Ciri interjected. “Because she’s going to be too busy trying not to get murdered by someone with big ambitions and the means to accomplish it. Anna needs to be put under heavy guard, the sooner the better. As soon as someone can get me a real shirt instead of this frippery I’ll go get her from the palace and take her to mine. She’ll be safest there.”

“Right.” Geralt leaned back into the main room. “BB!”

The majordomo came running, and after getting his instructions, pelted back out again to hunt down a top so Ciri could finally wear something other than the courtly dress top and corset.

“Thank you, your majesty.” Damien looks very relieved. “I truly hope this is a false alarm, but your help in this matter is invaluable.”

“You and me both; but you’re welcome.” She says with a smile. “While he’s hunting down some clothing we might as well get the sketch done.”

The captain nods and steps forward, pulling out a sheaf of papers and a selection of sticks from his side pouch. He always carried them, as it was best to be able to catch a witness’s description of a suspect when it was fresh. “Try to think of the day that you went to the lab. Walk through your footsteps of that day; sights, sounds, smells.”

“ ‘ _ Smells?’ “ _

“Indeed. Smells prompt memories even more clearly than sight sometimes.” He gestured. “Close your eyes, witcher, and allow your mind to go blank. Focus on the beginning of that day.”

Geralt blinked, shrugged, and took up the pose he usually used for meditation. At Damien’s look Ciri explained. “Witcher thing. Keep going.”

“...Very well.”

He begins, and both Ciri and Regis watch in fascination as Damien slowly, calmly walks him through the events shortly before the lab, including the infuriating  _ traps,  _ and the even more infuriating fight with the other witcher.

“This Gaetan-” He says, stick moving over the paper, “What stood out the most to you?”

“...Distinctive scar on his face-from the corner of his eye to the corner of his jaw.”

“Right or left?”

“...Left.”

After that it’s the basics-height, build-a composite picture bleeding out onto the page. It’s rough, impressionistic, but that’s the point; too exact and it would, conversely, make it more difficult to prompt the memories of people that might have seen him, as some small details might be off. He has Geralt sign off on it to verify that the picture came from the memory of a specific witness, and files it in a separate pouch for evidence.

“And now that we have the face and name of another collaborator, it will help immensely. Now, the lab.”

Regis stares intently at the picture being sketched now; the vials of samples, organs, and the large iron maiden that the subjects were put into to receive the mutagens. At the end of it, Geralt is surprised at what he can recall, staring at the sheets as he signs off on them. “You’re  _ good  _ at this.”

“Long practice.” He shrugs, and puts everything away. “I’ll have copies made of the equipment and this other witcher. Perhaps someone will have seen either; and of course for you to study doctor. With any luck, he will have had to commission local alchemists for custom equipment or the like, or someone else will have had a run-in with this ruffian. He’s not the type to go long without violent incidents. Likely, he has a bounty on his head for similar occurrences.”

“Wouldn't surprise me.” Geralt drawled.

Damien’s mouth quirks in a smile, and he turns to Regis. “When the vampire awakes, let me know; I will need to question him. Gertrude will set up a means of communication here so that you may alert me. Do not hesitate to call on me, no matter the time of day or night.”

“Of course, my good man.”

Basil comes tripping in with the shirt, and Ciri pulls it on behind a screen. Finally dressed, she gestures to her borrowed sword. “Got a spare sheath too? Carrying this thing is getting awkward.”

The witcher snorted, amused. “I’ll do you one better.”

He carried back a spare sheath with an even better sword-‘you and your arms and armor collecting, I  _ swear’- _ and she slings it on. “Alright Damien, let's go. You okay with portals?”

“I...have never been a fan, but-”

“That’ll just have to do then, times a-wastin'.” The captain jerks as she waves a hand, a portal opening up and she tugs him through, Geralt and Regis following close behind.

Just before they go through, Regis gives the witcher a wry smile. “...You daughter, truly.”

Geralt huffs a laugh, and they follow behind.

On the other side, Damien staggers a bit, but recovers his balance admirably. Ciri and Geralt don’t pay him any mind, instead looking about on high alert. Their hands rests lightly on their blades, and both walk briskly along, falling into step-and old habits-quickly. Damien feels like a mincing elephant compared to them, but he’s too focused on finding the duchess and getting her into safety to dwell on it. He flags down a guard.

“Where is the duchess?”

“Ah, enjoying the midday meal out in the gardens sir. Something amiss?”

“Perhaps.” He mutters, walking along and towing the man along with him. “Anything unusual to report?”

“Yes sir. My apologies, but we haven't been able to reach you today-the head sommelier has gone missing; he has not been seen at all today. The duchess herself has ordered a search-”

Damien paled, and looked to Ciri. It might be nothing, but- “Are you able to take us to the gardens?”

Ciri shakes her head. “I can only pop into places I’ve been before, else we risk appearing  _ in  _ a wall.”

Damien grimaced, and they double-timed it to the gardens. “Tell the men to put the threat level at griffin. Do it fast, but quietly. Go!”

The guard paled and ran off like the devil himself was after his heels.

“Griffin-?”

“Only used when the duchess is under immediate threat.” He explains.

None of them say anything after that, running in grim silence. 

A few rooms away, unaware of the danger, Anna swirled the wine in her glass, trying not to fidget. She didn't want to let on that she was overly worried, even if her sommelier was the kind of man you could set a clock by. For now, she would enjoy her Sangreal and hope he’d be found in time for dinner. That meal was the largest and she was hosting more people than usual tonight; he would be needed to wait on her guests and suggest wine pairings. Normally she reserved her famed sangreal for very special occasions like parties and gifts, but without her sommelier available to pick and choose the wines she would have to err on the side of caution and serve the best. She takes a sip of this years red, deciding she may as well have a nip of it before the evening meal and taste-test it herself; nothing like a good red for a meal of  _ boeuf bourguignon,  _ it’s more acidic bite strong enough to withstand such a hearty meal. Though, honestly, this was a bit bitter-more so than usual. Hm, perhaps a change of dessert to something sweeter would balance out the taste, though she doubted it. She made a face and decided that she’d go with the white instead, fanning herself. It was starting to get hot out; perhaps she should have the evening meal moved indoors-

“Your grace.” 

“Damien!” Anna stood, glaring at him. “My god's man, where on earth have you been all day!? I was about to send out a search party for you too!”

“My deepest apologies, your grace.” He said, dipping a bow. He was red-faced and breathing heavily. “I’m sorry, but I was away gathering information and stumbled upon some alarming news. I’d like to say more, but-”

“-Time is of the essence, and we’re wasting it on explanations.” Said Geralt. “You need to come with us.”

“Wh-and what authority do you have to order me so?” She said, eyeing him.

Then a familiar form stepped out from behind him. “Hate to pull rank on you like this, but he’s with me, and I have all the authority needed to order you.”

“ _ Empress-”  _ She throws a disbelieving look at Damien, but his face is-though reddened from running-deadly serious. She swallows against a rush of anxiety-induced nausea. “-Uh, m-my empress, I do apologize-”

She waves away her apology and attempts at a bow. “No time for formalities. You’re under threat; I’m taking you to my place for your safety, we’ll-”

“Your grace, your grace! We found Benoit!” A guard came running up with a pair of guards behind him, her sommelier being dragged between them. 

Benoit was...a mess to say the least. His usually sleekly combed-back grey hair was in disarray, his spectacles askew and splattered with tears. His face had the red, puffy look of someone who’s been crying hysterically for some time. “We found him in a linen closet in the winter wing by his snuffles.”

“Benoit, what on earth-” She doesn't get a chance to finish as the man practically throws himself at her feet, heaping his apologies at them.

“S-s-sorry, oh gods your grace, I’m so sorry, b-b-but my grandson, my-” He sobbed, “They have him, they have him, oh gods-”

Damien’s eyes widened, and he grabbed the man. “Speak man, who has him? For what purpose did they take him?”

“I-I don’t know! I-I got a n-note, just hours ago, and then he went missing, t-they told me all I had to do to get him back was not to appear at the d-ducal table!”

“My gods.” Anna said, her breath catching in her throat, and she was having difficulty getting it back. Benoit absolutely adored little Ander, ever since his parents had died and he’d taken him in. “What despicable people would-”

“Same kind that’s been killing your knights, I think.” Ciri added grimly. “Real question is  _ why _ .”

“I-I don’t know!” The man wailed. “I’m not someone of grand importance! All I do is select wines and check each for quality before serving them! I-I make sure they are all up to exacting standards-”

“Would ‘not tampered with’ be one of those standards?” Damien said.

“Uh, of course-we’d had issues before with diluting before I took the position to skim...money…” Benoit stared, understanding dawning over him. “Oh, oh noooo…” He moaned.

Anna suddenly felt a rush of dizziness she was suddenly, terrifyingly, sure had nothing to do with the heat. 


	15. lightning crashes

* * *

Ciri is the one to catch her as she falls, dizziness overtaking the duchess. A flurry of activity whirls around her; guards sprinting in all directions to summon the court mage and alchemist. Regis makes to push through the protective ring, only to be stopped by the guards.

“Who-”

The guard barely gets the words out when Geralt berates him. “Out of the way, dammit, he’s a doctor!”

They grudgingly part and the barber-surgeon hurries to her side, pulling off his satchel. “Damien, get me the glass of wine-I need to test it.”

He carefully hands it over, and the doctor takes a whiff.  _ I think...hm.  _ “Anna, do you feel a burning or tingling sensation?”

“Y-yes-” She managed to get out, just before vomiting. Regis ignores the splatter on his clothing, he’s been covered in worse as a surgeon.

“Wolfsbane.” He mutters. “Damien, I’ll need three things; a pail of water, spent charcoal, and sumac berries. I’ve some, but this will require far more than I have.”

The captain nods and shouts orders at his men, three of them peeling off on their errands. Regis for his part takes out a small mortar and pestle, his ingredients, and one of the guards hands him a glass of water. He gets to work making the first batch, and Geralt uses igni on the glass of water just so that it’s warm, but not scalding, and adds the berries to steep. By the time the steeping is done, the charcoal is ready to be added. It’s not the most appetizing looking slurry, but Anna gulps it down eagerly with the assistance of Regis, still aware enough to know that this is what needs to be done to get rid of the poison. 

She curls around her stomach, feeling like her mouth, throat, and stomach are on fire. The sensation doesn't get any better when she purges everything, but it’s a tossup between that and the pure fear. She knows she’s been poisoned, that she might  _ die.  _ She’s been a beloved ruler for years, with practically no competitors. This is the first time she's  _ ever  _ experienced an attack on her life; and she’s appropriately terrified.

“Am I-am I going to-” She gasps.

The man treating her pats her cheek, an attempt at comfort. “Not if I can help it.”

It’s cold comfort when her head is swimming and she feels like she’s swallowed live coals, but she takes the second dose without complaint. Not like she has the  _ ability _ to complain when she’s too busy vomiting it up again. She’s only just aware of her captain thoroughly questioning Benoit, and she desperately clings to that to try to escape from the pain and fear. 

“D-Damien,  _ nnng,  _ Geralt-” She shudders, “Save...save the boy.”

Geralt looks up briefly from water duty-the pail and other ingredients had arrived, he’s been heating the water with igni--and says calmly “Yes, your majesty.”

Bizarrely enough, that quiet promise is more reassuring than anything else. She’s not sure why, nor really aware enough to think it over, but she focuses on that in the midst of all the purging. Two pairs of footsteps come rushing up, and the familiar faces of Fringilla and her court alchemist loom over her. The first raised her hands and she felt the pain ease by a fraction, while the alchemist immediately went through his bag.

“I’ve heard it’s wolfsbane?”

“Lower dose, thankfully. I’ve already done two washes.” 

“Good good. Symptoms?” 

“The usual; dizziness, nausea, her pulse is slow and weak, but steady.” 

The alchemist nodded, and bent to her. “Anna, do you feel any weakness in your limbs, any tingling or numbness?”

“N-no.”

“Good. I’ve got the tincture ready doctor.”

Regis nods, and that’s the last she remembers. Everything blurs into a mass of stupefaction, voices become garbled nonsense, the light becomes bright while shadows deepen, friends become strangers.

_ “Ah, I see the confusion has set in.” _

_ -lightning crashes outside, and she falls to the floor. She's so little and scared, and her sister stands at the door. She swoops in like an angel to save her from the noise, takes her up like a baby in her arms. They huddle down together like they often did when the nightmares overtook her sister. She’s learned to laugh at them with her jokes and tricks and pranks and she teaches her that. They laugh at the storm together, and she loves her sister, loves her so much- _

_ -and they’re yelling again, like thunder chasing the wind, and she’s gotten over her fear of lightning but not the noise that follows, and her parents look like stormclouds. There's nothing she can say because it’s always fallen on deaf ears, when it comes to the moment they’ve all been waiting for, forces outside everything dictating her sister's fate- _

_ -Her old mother dies, the duchydom that was hers now belongs to the blond down the hall. But it should have belonged to the raven-haired one that isn't here, and she’d rather have her sister than the entire kingdom; but she hasn't been found, vanished, probably dead. She’ll take care of it, the best of care, in memory of her and what she should have had; a seat at the head with her sister beside- _

-The door shuts, and she slowly pulls out of the strange dreamspace she’d been in at the noise, blinking about. An older gentleman is there, his hand still on the handle. “Ah, I see you’re awake.”

“Regis...?” She rasps. Her throat hurts terribly.

“Try not to talk.” He said gently. “I’ve been working with your alchemist in treating your brush with wolfsbane, and you are past the worst of it but you need to rest and recover right now.”

“You’ve been through quite an ordeal,” murmurs a familiar voice at her elbow. She rolls her head on the pillow to look- she’d been placed in a bed at some point without noticing -and Fringilla is sitting in a chair by her bedside. She smiles a little when Anna spots her. “Welcome back to the land of the living, cousin.”

The duchess groans weakly. “Almost wish I hadn't returned.”

The doctor comes to stand at her bedside, smiling down at her. “Understandable. But I suppose it’s better than the alternative.”

She huffs, rather than laughs, as her abused... _ everything  _ won’t allow an actual chuckle. It’s a strange sort of stress relief, laughing at the danger, but it’s one lesson she’d learned the effectiveness of a while ago.

“What...happened? After...”

“After you were past the worst of it, the empress brought you here, to her palace. She has you under close guard; doubt any new attempts could get through them or my wards. She’s having me put up as well, so I can keep an eye on you.” Fringilla said.

“Surprised...the former emperor didn't...put up a fuss.” 

Her cousin snorted. “Have you met the current empress? She’d bite his head off herself if he tried to encroach on her authority. I daresay it was quite the surprise that his attempt at ruling on through her was a complete flop. Besides, he’s currently ‘enjoying’ his retirement back in Toussaint, and his reach is considerably shorter these days.” 

She remembered when the man had come to his estate in her little corner of the world, two years after Cirilla’s ascent to the throne; she swore she could feel his bruised ego from the palace. He’d been nursing his wounded pride ever since. They shared an amused smile, and she turned to the other person in the room.

“Thank...you.” She whispered to Regis. She feels certain his attentions has saved her life; she will have to reward him suitably. 

“You are welcome, my dear. Now, you should probably rest; I’m sure we can talk more later.”

She sighs, sinking back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Geralt turns away, blinking the bright flash of the portal out of his eyes. Damien looks strained, jaw clenched in anger. The man had wanted to go with her, but Geralt told him Anna had ordered them to rescue the boy.

He placed a calming hand on the captain's shoulder. “Relax. She’ll be in the best of care, now that she’s out of the woods.”

“I know; I just cannot help but feel that I must be by her side.” Damien lets out a shaky breath, forcing himself to calm, and then turns to his men. “Keep this quiet; we must let the perpetrator think they’ve succeeded. Don’t make any announcements to the public just yet though. Get a platoon of guards in plainclothes on the sommelier's house. Francis, get the doppler.”

Geralt looks startled. “You have a doppler on staff?”

“Indeed; they come in handy. We acquired them through...interesting means. Namely, they volunteered themselves. An interesting story, but I shall tell you later.” 

“I’ll hold you to it. What’s the plan?”

“Well, the boy is our best lead. Whoever took him told Benoit he would be returned at a certain date and time. Hopefully, they keep their word. My doppler shall take on Benoit’s appearance and attend the rendezvous tonight, with some of my officers and ourselves in attendance.” 

“That note he said he got through…” Geralt says, thinking. “Wonder how he got it.  _ Someone  _ must have slipped it in his pocket.”

“Ah, could be anyone,” Damien replies, frustrated. “He’s got rooms here in the palace like most of the staff; one of the servants could have gotten into his room and slipped it in a pocket.”

Geralt shakes his head. “He would have noticed it when he put on his clothes for the day.”

Damien frowns. That  _ was  _ a good point. Perhaps he might not have noticed but...well, if the abductors  _ didn’t  _ keep their word-which, honestly, was quite likely-it will be good to see if they can’t find some other means of finding the perpetrators.

He turns to the shaking, glazed mess that is Benoit. The man had given him everything and anything he could provide, and now he looked to be in shock. “Benoit, walk me through your day, from the beginning.”

“I-I-” He gasps, overtaken by trembles, and Geralt steps in. He performs a strange motion in the air, and the man sags, going slack.

“Be calm, Benoit.” The witcher murmurs. “Try again.”

This time it’s easier, with the man in some trance. His day started normally-testing and examining the wines on hand for quality, and pairing them with the morning meals for the ducal table and for other smaller gatherings of dignitaries. After which he stepped out briefly to run errands, like checking the newest delivery of wines, getting his shoes shined-

“The boy’s stand had some men...loitering about it. Beggars, I think. It’s on the edge of the bad part of town, but it’s so well trafficked, with a guardhouse around the corner; it was just so...strange, that they were hanging about…” He blinks, and the tremors are starting to come back. “They kept coming close to the chairs, one almost fell over me. W-when I left, they did too; I thought they would follow me and try to rob me, but...they didn't. Felt lucky that they…”

He shudders, and focuses again. “After that I...I took off my coat and took my purchases from the pockets and that’s...that’s when I found the note. I thought it was a  _ prank,  _ some cruel joke, and went calling for him; thought I’d find him where I’d left him with his schoolwork but no, n-nowhere to be found-”

Whatever spell he’d been under to keep him calm breaks, and he folds like a house of cards back into hysterics. Damien gestures to the two guards that had been monitoring him, and they haul him upright. This is when perhaps the most versatile of his staff comes up, still wearing the appearance of one of his guardsmen. “Ah, Janne. Good to see you again.”

“What role am I to play this time, boss ol’ pal?” He says, with a wide grin, then he spots the witcher. “Oh wow, is that the consultant the majesty called in?”

“It is indeed.”

Janne gives him a sidelong look. “You aren’t doing any... _ jobs _ on the side now, are you?”

“Relax Janne, not looking for another trophy.” Geralt gives him a small smile. “Besides, I think Damien will take  _ my  _ head if I try.”

“And don’t you forget it.” The doppler said, jabbing a finger in his direction. Geralt looks bemused but nods. Thus reassured, Janne turns back to his captain, who gestures to Benoit. Janne goes to stand in front of the sommelier, studying the man for a long moment, hands on his knees as he pays careful attention to his face. After a minute or two he stands, nodding.

“Put him in one of the holding cells, level one. If he volunteers any other information, let me know immediately. Otherwise leave him be,” Damien instructs the other two guards holding the sommelier. Benoit is innocent of any evil intent as far as he can tell, so he’s gentler than circumstances would normally dictate him to treat someone complicit in an assassination attempt.

“My...my grandson-” The old man manages to say as they haul him off.

“The duchess ordered us to recover him, and so we shall.” The sommelier droops in acceptance. 

Once he’s gone, Janne changes form. It’s not the prettiest thing to see, but looking around Geralt can see that the other men don’t flinch or shuffle about, so they must be quite used to the scene. In a moment the sommelier is standing before them again, and he bows elegantly. “At yer’ service captain. I’m guessing this isn't some cloak ‘n daggery shite?”

Normally, Janne was employed in stings on organized crime; sex slavery, fisstech, and what have you. In those circumstances, they’d take their target off the street on some bogus charge, and stand Janne behind a screen to observe them for a long while so he could properly learn the mannerisms of his subjects, but in this instance, it wasn't needed. “No, Janne. You’re to pose as a man who’s had his grandson abducted when we get the little boy back. It’ll happen later tonight, but for now I need you to go back to his house and look sufficiently panicked.”

“Melitilies tits, those are the worst,” He mutters and gives himself a shake. His entire demeanor changes to… Well, a meek, bespectacled man on the older side of middle age, who’s had his grandson abducted. He looks sufficiently miserable and goes tripping off unaccompanied. Damien hopes that, between keeping quiet the fact that Anna survived the ordeal, and that Benoit is walking about instead of in a cell, it’s enough to fool the kidnappers into believing that the sommelier’s involvement hadn't been discovered and that their plot had worked. If all goes well, they’ll get Ander back and catch the kidnappers, rather than finding the boys body in a ditch somewhere, or months later sold to some prostitution ring, or perhaps the worst fate- Never finding him at all, leaving his grandfather to wonder for the rest of his life.

“We’ve some time before the exchange,” The witcher murmurs. “Fancy taking a look at the shoe-shining stand? Sounds too suspicious to let go.”

Damien nods, and they’re off.

* * *

Being an enterprising businessman was not without its pitfalls and critics. Currently, three of them were standing about his stall, raising some rather  _ strenuous  _ objections, and making some very hurtful accusations. Namely, a conspiracy that he purposely emptied chamber pots in front of their doors to encourage business- Well, perhaps it isn’t a  _ baseless _ one, but still. 

“A far-fetched conspiracy sirs!” He backs up, looking about for escape routes. He was very good at escapes; he’d had many opportunities to practice.

“I’ll conspire to welt your bum with my belt! Come here!”

He tenses, ready to make his escape, when a voice growls from behind them.

“Leave him alone.”

Mr. Belt looks about. “And just who the spit are-”

He chokes on what he was going to say when he sees the two new arrivals-one whom Oliver recognizes-and the boy groans under his breath. Oh no, not  _ him.  _

“Move along,” Damien growls.

“But...but captain! This scamp keeps dumping his chamberpot in front of our shop!”

“Does he now,” Damien murmurs, turning those knowing eyes on him. The urchin in question flicks his eyes to his escape route, only to find it blocked by the other man who had come with the captain. This one might have hair like an old man, but he certainly looks spry enough to catch him-and arches an eyebrow at him, like he's just daring him to make a run for it.

“He deserves a beating!” Blue Pants protests.

“I won't argue with you on that,” The captain growls, and the boy sighs, resigning himself to his fate. “However, I would ask for a stay of execution. I’ve an urgent need to talk to the boy, and no time to hand out a paddling first. But I daresay a day in the stocks will suffice?”

The three men consider this. The one with the cap speaks up. “...Will there be rotten tomatoes to toss?”

Damien sniffs. “Do I ever skimp?”

The men nod sagely; the captain indeed never does. They thank Damien heartily and walk off happily to await tomorrow and the promise of tomatoes.

Damien turns to him. “I see you’re up to your usual tricks, eh, Oliver?”

“I have to make money  _ somehow. _ ” He grumbles. “But c’mon captain, I doubt you came all this way to drag me to the stocks.”

“No, but I did stop those men from tanning your hide.”

Oliver blew out a breath, unimpressed. “They wouldn't have caught me.”

“Perhaps not today, but tomorrow? I recognize those men. They’re of a very large, very rough family. I put away one of those man’s brothers for the murder of his own son. I very much doubt that they would stop at just a light paddling for you. And you can run, boy, but you can’t hide. They’ll catch you sooner or later.” He crouches in front of him. “Best satisfy them with a few rotten tomatoes, rather than with broken legs and concrete shoes.”

Oliver is feeling less...optimistic. He’s got a sharp business sense, and he can tell what the better deal is. “...Maybe I can learn to like overripe tomatoes?”

“I bet you can.”

Oliver sighs, resigned. “Fine. What do you want, captain? Info as usual?”

The white-haired man gives the captain a curious look. “Information?”

“Oh yes, information sells just as well as shoeshines; especially since people just love to chat while getting their boots cleaned,” Oliver says proudly, though quietly of course. It won’t do for this to get around, oh no.

“Well, just so happens we’re looking for information about a _ specific _ client,” The pale man responds. “Earlier today, a man in the red and black uniform of the palace, with grey hair and glasses, stopped by your stand. Remember him?”

Oliver thinks it over and nods. “Mmm, I might if you-”

“-If I don’t make the number of tomatoes an entire bushel?” Damien offers sardonically.

“-Oh, you just jogged my memory, captain.” He says hastily. “Uniform red as a tomato, trim as black as mold spots, oh yes.”

His interlocutor smiles a bit. “He was being harassed by a few men at your stand. Do you know where they came from? Who they are?”

“Oh them? They’re harmless, just the local beggars; though your man didn't know it, I swear I could see him sweating. They don’t usually come up here though, strange they were hanging about.”

“Where do they usually hang around, then?”

“Oh, here and there in the slums during the day; during mealtimes they go to the shelter for food. You can probably catch them there.”

“Any idea why they stepped out of their usual haunts?”

“Maybe…” He looked towards Damien. “...If the good captain makes the tomatoes into...cabbage? Tomatoes stain so  _ dreadfully.” _

“Which you have experience with, having visited the stocks a few times.”

“So you know just how it is, oh supplier of tomatoes!”

“I will make it six tomatoes, one head of cabbage,” Damien says.

“One tomato, and half a head!”

“Five, and a half.”

“Three and a half!”

Damien glares at him, silent for a long moment, then huffs. “Very well.”

They shake on it, and Oliver continues. “All right, they came to pass me a note. They paid me to slip it into his pocket. I’ve done it for them before.”

“Beggars, paying  _ you?” _ The white-haired man interjects.

“Well I’m not going to do it for free, now am I?”

“They must have been commissioned,” Mr. White says to the captain.

“By someone _very_ paranoid. They hung about until the guy left just to make sure he got it. The nerve! I’m a very reliable sort; they insult my competence by watching me like hawks, though at least they provided enough of a distraction for me to pass it to him,” He adds, this time free of charge. He was still miffed by that.

Damien ignored it. “You’ve passed notes before?”

“Ohoho, don’t think you’ll get that for free.” He said resolutely. Damien growled irritably, and he crossed his arms, brooking no argument.

“...I’ll let you out of the stocks before dinner.”

“Before lunch!”

“Mid-afternoon, and no earlier!”

He huffs. “Ugh, fine. There was another that was real nice- He’d come to get his boots shined every few days; a most dependable customer. Or, well, he  _ was- _ He just stopped showing up one day...”

“Get on with it.”

“Right. Anyway, it was kinda the same deal. The beggar would wait around in the alley for him, come up with the note and coin, hand it to me, and I deliver it. Simple.”

“Who was the man?”

“Mmm...never said his name. Blue eyes, slicked-back black hair, black frock coat, little gold moth pin on it. Very nicely dressed for this part of town, honestly. Said he always came here because I did such a good job shining his shoes, always tipped well, and asked me how I was doing. Think he has a soft spot for urchins like myself-though with my charms, how anyone could resist-but he was nice. Pity what happened to his friend, really. He was depressed for days after.”

“His friend?” Damien asks curiously.

“Oh, you would’ve heard about him. That knight that got killed? Du Lac? He came to my boot stand pretty often. One of my other customers was being  _ ever  _ so rude to the poor man, tried to cut in line. Du Lac showed him his place, hah! Sent him away with his tail between his legs, and he and the kind man hit it off.” He shakes his head. “Alas, a few days later...well. He came back, after, but he was quiet then. Didn’t speak to me anymore, always looked sad about it. I think he stopped coming because of it.”

He looks up to see that Mr. White was looking- Well, looking like he’d had a revelation. He and the captain exchange looks.

“Dettlaff; Regis’ friend.”

Damien arched an eyebrow. “You’re sure?”

“Matches the description.”

Oliver senses an opportunity; so when Damien turns back to him, he immediately names his price. “Let me out before lunch, and I’ll consider it.”

Damien narrows his eyes, and Oliver knows he’s testing the captain’s patience, but he refuses to back down. Finally, the man nods.

“Do you know where this ‘kind man’ lives?”

Okay, he’s not...really sure about that. Perhaps he’s a scammer and cheat and a liar, but this man has been unfailing caring towards him; had brought him footrests for his stand cobbled together from spare parts, and would occasionally sneak small toys to other street urchins he knew. “I...uh. Damien, you and I have never been, uh, friends, but...I know you’re a decent sort.” He hesitates. “You won’t...hurt him, will you? He’s a bit odd, true, but he’s kind.”

Damien, in spite of their adversarial past-including a memorable one with the fake tickets-nods seriously. “You’ve my word, young man.”

Oliver chews his lip. “...Okay. I leave his boots at a house near the port. The door is red, but I don’t know if the gentleman lives there.”

“Thank you.” Mr. White addresses Damien. “House or beggers first?”

“Hmm...beggars first, they’ll have more recent evidence. The house will most likely contain what we already know, but still worth canvassing for clues.” He turns to Oliver. “And you; stay out of trouble, _at_ _least_ until tomorrow.”

Oliver sighs. “I’ll try captain. No guarantees!”

Damien rolls his eyes and departs with Mr. White.

Geralt gives the captain an amused look. “I’ve a feeling you know each other well.”

“More than I would like,” He grouses. “He’s constantly in the thick of things; I’ve bailed him out more than I ever will admit. It’s just his luck that he comes in handy at times.”

“And it has nothing to do with you liking him?”

“You,” Damien snaps, jabbing a finger at him, “Are entirely too nosey for your own good.”

“Witcher, remember? Not just the eyes that are catlike; got the curiosity as well.”

“Well, keep your entirely too-true remarks to yourself. I have a reputation to maintain!”

“Sure, Damien.”

They head to the shelter, though they’re tripped up by some ‘concerned citizens’ (well, more like stubborn jackasses) block their way, braying about the homeless people. Damien is already done with this conversation about a minute in, and when the morons decide to turn to fisticuffs Geralt graciously steps aside to let the captain beat out his frustration on the men. 

“Feel better?” Geralt asks.

The three men that had been harassing the man in charge of the shelter were laid out groaning and trying to stagger away, his knuckles were pleasantly bruised, and the adrenalin rush he’d gotten was making his tension melt away at last.

“Yes.” He grunts, cracking his neck in a satisfying way. 

The corner of Geralt’s lips twitched into a smirk, and then he turned to the man that ran this place. “Don’t think they’ll be bothering you for a while.”

He huffed. “I’d think not! Who in their right mind would attack a member of the guard?”

“People are stupider than you think. Can’t count the number of times people tried to mug me.” Geralt said, amused. 

Damien gave him an incredulous look. “Mug? A  _ witcher _ ?”

“Like I said, stupid.” Geralt ushered the good samaritan into the building so they could start their questions. 

The moment the beggars see Damien though, a cry goes up. “It’s the guard!”

Geralt has to dash to block one of the exits while Damien covers the other, and even with them being quick to cover them some of the beggars managed to bolt. They’re able to hem in three of them, and those that are left look less than cooperative. They look around furtively like rats looking for a bolt hole, and they only just manage to calm down when Geralt hits them with an axii.

“Relax,” He soothes. “Just want some information. You aren’t in trouble.”

They do manage to calm, but only just. Geralt can feel their panic struggling against the magic. “Make it quick.” Geralt says with gritted teeth.

“Who among you has delivered letters to the bootblack?”

A chorus of ‘ayes’ from all three.

“All right, which of you were to pass a note  _ today?” _

“Freshy was, but he’s not here!”

Damien grimaced. “Where do you usually meet with the letter-writer?”

“Ah, we meet her at the edge of town, by the cemetery gate.” 

Damien and Geralt traded looks.  _ Another conspirator?  _ “ ‘Her?’ What did she look like?”

“Couldn't see, wore a red hooded cloak.” The men look very anxious when she’s brought up. “Please don't let on we squealed! She was scary; threatened us with all sorts of things!”

Geralt made the sign again, murmuring soothingly. “Won’t say a word.” 

They quieted, and Damien tried another question; probably the last one, these men didn't look like they’d stay calm for long. “Were any of you  _ going  _ to be handing more notes off to the bootblack?”

One nods and holds up a note. “I...I was supposed to deliver this one after the feast of st. Barnabas, but I was hounded by some rough-looking types this morning, they tried to grab me and take it! Lost them a while ago; didn't want to come here because they might get me but the usual dump was all out of scraps.”

Damien raised an eyebrow at that and took the proffered note. “...Have any of you been followed or harassed by thugs?”

“Not I, just the usual ‘good folk’ telling me to move along.”

The second one looked unsure. “I-I’m always being followed by shadows, but I’ve been told they aren't real so it’s hard to tell.”

Damien frowns, dithering. These men might be at risk of this organization killing witnesses to cover their tracks; he should probably take them into protective custody. “Listen, if this woman is as scary as you say and is sending men after you, I would like to take you to my guardhouse for your safety.”

The three don’t look at all interested in that, so he tries diplomacy. “You’ll have beds, no interrogations, and three square meals instead of scraps, and once she’s caught, you can leave. You don’t have to come, but I don’t want anything to befall you because I didn't do my due diligence.”

The three of them do look tempted-after all, they usually did petty crimes just so they  _ could  _ be thrown in the clink for that-but at the end only two take him up on the offer, the one that was harassed by thugs, and the one that saw shadows, who looked doubly jumpy now. The third Damien told him to pass the offer on to Freshy, with a bonus of two crowns if he came in to give a statement.

They escort the two along to the guardhouse, Damien leading and Geralt following behind to guard their rear. They're only  _ just  _ out of the shelter when a group of thugs steps out of the alley. A  _ large  _ group and he just can’t risk these two witnesses.

“Run to the guardhouse,” He instructs the two men, “Tell the guards That Damien De La Tour sent you and why. Go!”

The two beggars book it, and he can only hope there aren't more groups around other corners waiting to catch them. Some of the thugs try to pursue them, but the witcher trips them up with a blast of wind, wading in with a snarl. That leaves five for him; five well-armed and trained men rather than the usual drunkards he has to deal with. Thankfully he’s never let himself grow complacent, keeping up his training and exercises, and falls into them. He’s an honorable man but he knows honor doesn't save your skin in the streets, so he starts with a steel-toed boot to a pair of gonads, kicking them right up into his throat. One down, four to go; and the others keep well out of boot range, which works to his advantage because it gives him enough room to swing his sword. 

It’s a brutal fight, and by the end of it he’s managed to knock out two, have the third curled up in the fetal position-Damien thinks the man's balls may have ruptured-the fourth running, and the fifth trying to stem the bleeding from his leg. It doesn't look good, he’s probably hit an artery. Damien is better off, but he’s got a vicious cut across his cheek, bruises galore, and a gash across his ribs.

“Damien!” 

Suddenly he’s enclosed in a golden sphere, and he sees a bolt ping off it. The witcher is suddenly at his side, one hand held up maintaining it, the other holding a crossbow. The shooter drops his and tries to make a run for it, but to Damien’s disbelief the witcher actually manages to shoot him one handed. Granted it’s in the shoulder, but it still makes the guy stagger. Enough so that the ringing of hobnailed boots will catch up to him; and Damien is gladdened to see the cavalry thunder past, both mounted and foot soldiers. The mounted guard runs down the fleeing bowmen, while the others rush up to slap manacles on the fallen thugs. They almost try to slap some on Geralt-which, from the horrible goulash he’s made of his thugs would not have ended well for anyone-and he has to bellow at them to leave the witcher alone.

“Sir, you alright? Those beggars said-”

“Fine, fine. Anyone got some rags?”

A couple of them have some-thankfully clean-handkerchiefs, and Geralt even has some wintergreen oil for the pain. He growls irritably and waves off the guards' concerns. “Just a scratch man, I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll need stitches for the one on your side at the least, or it’s just going to keep coming open.” Geralt says calmly. “I’ve got a kit.”

Damien sighs. “Oh, I suppose your right. Go ahead.”

The witcher is quick and efficient, and the oil has already started its magic so the stitching doesn't quite hurt so much, nor does his assorted bruises. He runs a finger over the neat line, impressed. “You do good work, witcher. They teach you healing arts in the wolf school?”

Geralt snorted. “They only taught the basics. Regis showed me how to do stitches better than the usual snarl of thread they taught us. That, and how to make a decent fish soup.”

Damien chuckled. “The doctor comes in handy, doesn't he?”

Geralt huffs a laugh and helps to haul him to his feet. He grimaces, feeling that he’s going to be sore tomorrow, but well enough that he can get along today now that he’s caught his breath. “Men, take these ruffians into custody, do the usual round of interrogations once they’ve come round. Let me know what you’ve found when you squeeze them, but try to keep this quiet.”

“Of course sir.” The man stated. “Need anything else?”

He shakes his head and dismisses the men, and they start to walk. “Thank you witcher, for deflecting that bolt.”

“Wouldn't want you dead on top of everything else that’s happened today. It’d be awkward.”

Damien chuckled, and Geralt looked thoughtful. “Think they caught wind and decided to round up witnesses?”

Damien shook his head. “The one beggar said they came this morning; before Anna was poisoned.”

Geralt humned. “What’s the letter say?”

He pulled it out, and it's...well, he should have seen this coming, but the sentence ordering the beast to  _ literally  _ tear Anna’s heart out is still shocking. He grimaces, disgusted. “Thank god we stopped the beast, it forced the perpetrators to change their plans. Probably why they wanted to pick the beggar up; with Anna dead and the beast... _ incapacitated _ , he’d have no reason to deliver it. They can’t just have this floating about.”

“True. Large group for one man though.”

“Hm. Perhaps now with the news of Anna’s ‘death’ they sent in more to round up all the witnesses.” 

Geralt frowned. “Oliver. We should stop and pick him up as well then since he passed the notes.”

They hurriedly made their way back to the bootblack who-once again-was being accosted by people. This time though, they didn't look like they’d be satisfied with the promise of tomatoes. Thankfully this was a much smaller group-probably figured they only needed two to grab a kid-but they had sorely underestimated their quarry. One of them was only just hanging on to the wriggling urchin, the other was hopping about on one leg, cursing the kid black and blue. It was almost comically easy for Geralt to blast this slideshow with aard and have the entire assemblage fall over. The witcher helps the stunned boy up while Damien scruffs the two men.

“Hello again. You alright?”

“Uh, I suppose. I’ve no idea what these men even wanted me for; didn’t air their grievances with me before trying to snatch me!”

“If it’s worth anything, I doubt it was personal.” 

They both watch the captain wrestle the two men into cuffs. Damien looks positively stormy, and the two men-who were only prepared for catching urchins, not dealing with a mountain of a man who was also the captain of the guard-cower at his feet. 

“You two are in for a world of trouble,” He growled at them, then addressed Oliver. “You’re coming with me; I’m not risking you getting snatched by anyone else.”

“I’d like to object, but I’d rather not meet this ‘else’.” Geralt can tell the boy is shaken despite the brave front he’s been putting on. 

Some local guards wandering about nearby are roped into taking them away, after a very loud talk about the value of ‘ _ paying attention when a kid is being snatched off the streets under their noses’.  _ Business concluded, they turn to leave, but Geralt stops with a raised eyebrow at the sound of little feet behind them. They both turn to look.

“What?” Oliver said. “Don’t think you’ll be rid of me that easily; no way am I going to be foisted off on some guards that were asleep on duty!”

Geralt gives Damien an amused look. “...Can’t say I blame him.”

Damien makes a very put-upon sigh. “Oh,  _ fine. _ ”

Oliver grinned cheekily at them both and tripped along between them, chattering away. At Damien’s request he’s happy to lead them to the house Dettlaff had been staying in, and Geralt is...well, he’s both surprised and unsurprised that it’s an abandoned toyshop. He jiggles the handle, and of  _ course  _ it’s locked.

“I’ll have to break it down.” He growls.

“Oh please, have some finesse.” Oliver says, shaking his head at them. He takes out a leather roll, and Geralt raises an eyebrow at the assortment of tools neatly slotted into pockets.

“Why am I not surprised.” Damien sighed, and Oliver grinned at him. 

Within moments the door creaked open, and they stepped in. It was a bit crowded-they weren't small men-and Damien grimaced as he swatted a marionette out of his face. “Creepy thing.”

Oliver on the other hand was enchanted by all the toys on display, immediately patting the nose of a rocking horse and admiring a jar of marbles with a knowledgeable eye. Damien lets him be with a warning not to take anything but otherwise lets him play with the toys, which he does with enthusiasm.

“He liked to make little toys and hand them out to other street kids,” Oliver remarks idly, tapping on the glass of the bowl. “Made me a pair of footrests for my stand.”

_ Surprised he had time to do that in between murders,  _ Damien thought grimly, but didn't voice it. 

They poke about down here but find nothing more than dust and creepy puppets so they make their way upstairs, leaving the boy to play with marbles on the first floor. The second floor is much the same, though it’s cleared of most of the stock with a workbench and a bed. Geralt pauses, staring at the setup, and wonders if Dettlaff has chosen this place  _ because  _ of its familiarity; something comforting in the midst of going out and killing strangers. Having been in the tinker's head he can get a sense of his behaviors and motives, and wonders if fiddling with these tools was the only thing that kept him together in between the terror for his former lover and the horror of killing innocent people. He frowns and crouches in front of the tools which bore signs of recent use-the workbench and the bed were the only other things that weren't covered in dust-and picks one up, thinking to himself as he turned the gouge over in his hands, the weight of it strangely familiar. He wonders what little things from the vampire's mind have bled over into his own, and tries not to think about it.

He stands and looks over the workbench, and again there’s something eerily familiar; a music box. It looks very old, and of a very different style than everything else here. He picks it up, and it tinkles out a few notes. Again its weight feels...familiar. The tune too. “Think this is his. He has a music box that used to belong to his lover.”

Damien looks it over with a critical eye. “Mmm, I must admit it looks more like something that you’d find in a jeweler's shop than a toyshop.”

“Mind if I take it to give it to him when he wakes up?”

Damien hesitates for a moment, then shrugs. “Eh, why not. I doubt it’ll be of any importance to the case, and he’ll be unable to fetch it himself; I would hate for it to be lost should this shop be sold.”

Geralt nods and takes a rag to wrap it in, the movement disturbing a few scraps of paper, and he peered at them curiously. “Damien, look at these.”

The captain picks them up and reads them over grimly. These are rather gruesome threats, the kind he’d seen by kidnappers in other cases, the ones that never turned out well. 

“...How likely is it that you think we’ll get her back?”

“Alive, completely unharmed? Not likely.” He sighs, tucking away the evidence for later. 

Regardless of what he feels about creatures like vampires, he cannot help but feel just the tiniest bit of sympathy for this ‘Dettlaff’. He has seen too many cases of people who had lost their loved ones to violence, and it never gets easier having to knock on their doors and deliver the terrible news. He suspects that a creature that is capable of such depths of loyalty and affection for a human that they could be browbeaten into murder to keep them safe will crumple to the floor in silent shock or loud wails just like anyone else when the news breaks. The only difference is the damage they could do in the depths of a grief-fueled rage, and he hopes Gertrude will be able to successfully contain him.

“Anything else here that's his, you think?”

Well, Geralt’s not sure the tools  _ are  _ Dettlaff’s-the fire in his shop had taken everything, and the last memory had been of hopes of finally having enough money to replace what was lost-but…hell, might as well. “The tools, I think. He’s a craftsman of some sort. He’s done repairs for Regis sometimes.”

Damien nods and they bundle up the tools in a box as well, the Captain tucking it under an arm and they turn to leave, not having found much of import really. The notes are proof of blackmail, so it is nice to have solid evidence, but it’s not anything they didn’t already know. The only other thing of some interest is the beautifully rendered charcoal sketch on the wall over the bed, which as it looks so fresh was probably made by the vampire.

“I see he’s also skilled at portraiture,” Damien said, coming closer to examine it. “Of Rhena, you think?”

“Probably. Going to make a copy?”

“Just in case. It may help with locating the lass.” He set the box down and got his sticks ready, feeling at ease with copying the picture. He’s always been better with faces rather than scenes, it’s much...more…

He stares at the sketch, feeling a strong sense of deja vu. “...I’ve drawn this woman before.”

Geralt looks startled. “You  _ have?” _

He looks from the sketch on the wall to the one on his board, and remembers-


	16. Run Rabbit Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extra chapter because I'll be gone all next weekend. Enjoy!

* * *

He greets her cordially, dipping into the bow he’d practiced obsessively. 

“Rise Damien.” She says, the newly-minted duchess smiling at him. She’d just been crowned a few months ago after the death of her mother, and this is the first time he's met any of the royal family. “It’s good to meet a hard-working member of the city guard.”

“Your grace is too kind.” He dips another bow, hoping he hasn't missed a spot on his armor, despite checking a thousand times.

“They’re well deserved, especially as your unique skills have come in very handy to the other members of the guard. I heard you’ve been training them on how to sketch the faces of criminals from the memories of witnesses? Not that wanted posters are anything new, but your pictures are astonishingly accurate, according to your superiors.” She comes closer. “And not only that, but you’ve mastered the ability to accurately predict-more or less-what a lost child or abducted person would look like years later, to assist in their recovery?” 

He nodded. He’d also been called to render that service to present as a gift for people that had given up on their lost lamb being found to remember them by, but decided not to bring up the morbid tidbit. “Indeed your highness. It’s impossible to render it in exacting detail, but it has come in quite useful. If I have close relatives to reference from or paintings of them done before, I can make a composite of such.”

Anna considered this, and gestured to her chamberlain. “See if you can find the small marble busts of my mother and father; they’re in the winter wing I believe. And the old family portraiture from the playroom.”

Damien wants to ask questions, but he awaits her orders patiently. They chat of nothing of any great significance; though she seems to like his way of organizing gathered evidence to make it easier to trace trends, regarding the way one can predict patterns in criminal movements with polite curiosity. Presently the chamberlin wheels in a cart with the requested items, the two marble busts set up for his examination, as well as the family portrait. To his interest it has not only her parents and herself-as a darling girl of perhaps eight-but an older girl next to her, with black hair like the father, rather than the dark blonde that Anna and her mother share. 

“My sister.” Anna says softly, coming to stand beside him. “She went missing not long after that picture was painted.”

Damien gives her a startled look. “I was not aware you had an older sibling.”

“You wouldn't. It was forbidden to speak of her while my mother yet lived; any accounts of her was to be framed as the antics of a cousin, distant and far-removed if allowed to be mentioned at all.” She sighed. “My...parents were of a conservative nature. My sister was a black sheep on account of their belief in the black sun prophecy.”

“I’m ah, not the religious sort myself, but even those that are that I know regard it with...suspicion,” Damien says, too late realizing he might have unintentionally insulted the duchess. “Not that its, ah-”

“Rubbish, mostly. Only the uneducated believe such things in this day and age.” She said mildly. “My house has disregarded it.”

Damien nodded-not sure what he was agreeing to-but felt it couldn't hurt. She doesn't seem to notice anyway, leaving him to take a seat next to the assorted references. 

“I, Damien, would like you to draw her as she would appear now, should she still live. I intend to send my knights out to find her and bring her back to me, and your picture would be of great help in doing so. If…” She paused, her face looking pained. “If...she should have passed, perhaps it will help in finding where she had fallen. If so her remains will be brought back to Toussiant, buried in the family cemetery where she belongs, and the portrait graven into the headstone.”

He tries not to swallow, feeling though he’s been given a test, but resolute nonetheless to give it his all. “I will give you my best efforts, your grace; I truly hope it helps to reunite you with your sister.”

Her formal smile softens into something more genuine. “Thank you, Damien. You may begin.”

* * *

“...Are you sure.” Geralt said slowly.

“I am sure; not because of my skills-which are acceptable, but not _extraordinary-_ but because it would make sense.” He turned to Geralt. “Think-our man is a usurper with no claim to the throne but by force. He may be backed up with an army, true, but even so he would still have to contend with Nilfgaard. The empire is strained with the rebuild of the north, but it is a fifty-fifty chance his power grab may be challenged. His claim to the throne is a tenuous one.”

Geralt nodded thoughtfully. “But if he places the elder sister on the throne as his figurehead his claim is legitimized.” 

“Not necessarily as a figurehead,” Damien said, sounding worried. “The beggars said _‘she’_ Geralt. Not a man with a cintrian-sounding accent that I’ve been following, a _she_ . Secondly, the knights that have been targeted? Their deaths might be twofold-to spread propaganda, sure, and to make Anna’s death seem well-deserved. These men though, were part of her _father's_ reign, very close; they would have known of the prophecy and consequently would have the most strenuous of objections, and the power to back them up. She would _know_ this, and therefore target them accordingly.” 

Geralt was reluctant to admit it but it did make sense. “Hard to think of a disappeared sibling all of a sudden coming back with this amount of clout but...this _does_ sound like just the kind of plan a noble looking to reclaim her birthright would hatch.”

“It does.” Damien tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Do you suppose the bea-ah, Dettlaff will be awake soon?”

“Thinking of seeing if you can get some information on that from him?”

“I could try.”

“Honestly don’t know. Vampires heal fast, but he took quite a beating. He’s been completely unconscious for the last couple of days. Also, I’m pretty sure if she’s conniving enough to come up with this and go by an alias...”

“Bah, he’s probably completely in the dark to her true identity then. A pity.” He tucked the drawing away and took up the box once more. “Come witcher, we’ve got an ambush to get ready; we can drop these items-and our rascal-off with my men, they’ll make sure each is delivered to the right place.”

They make their way downstairs, and Geralt peers around, looking for the kid. He frowns, a strange scent tickling his nose. It smelled like...oils and herbs? It reminded him of the healing salve he’d put on wounds-

“Oliver? Oliver, you best not be lurking somewhere stuffing your pockets with ill-gotten goods, you _know_ I’ll search you before we leave-” Damien checks every last Oliver-sized crook and cranny, but no boy to be seen, stuffing his pockets or non, and looks up to see Geralt examining something on the floor. “Witcher?”

“Boot print in the dust. Smaller than ours, too big to be Oliver.” Geralt’s nose twitched. “And I recognize the smell. Someone else was here, just minutes ago.”

Damien’s heart leaped into his throat. “Do you-do you think…?”

“Yeah,” Geralt growled, feeling anger spark in his chest. “Someone snatched him, and I think I know who.”

“Who on earth could do so with us just upstairs?!”

“Someone light as a cat on their feet.”

“...Gaetan.”

“Yeah.” Geralt stood and clenched his fists. “This guy is really getting on my nerves.”

“Well, he’s certainly on mine.” Damien snarled, and he gave the witcher a desperate look. “Could you track him?”

“I can try. The poultice he has on his shoulder has a scent, but he’d _know_ that.” Geralt was already sniffing about, trying to get a bead on him. “Damned if I’m just going to let him walk through, let's see if we can find the bastard.”

Geralt follows the faint trail out the door, and-unsurprisingly-loses it nearly immediately. The cat witcher had gone right for the main thoroughfare overrun with people ambling up and down it, with their smells and movement disturbing the scent trail and tearing it to shreds. It would be impossible to figure out which way he’d gone on scent alone, and Geralt had to give up with an irritated hiss. Damien frowned and waved some guards over. 

“Canvass the area; we need to find a man with a medium build and a bald head with two swords on his back and a young boy in tow. If you find him, do _not_ go after him alone, he’s a witcher and bound to be dangerous. Do your best to capture him alive if you can, but your priority is to rescue the boy.” He instructed them. 

“Think they’ll find him?” Geralt asked him quietly after the guards had run off to look.

“I don’t know, witcher,” Damien said, his face just as drawn and anxious as when Anna had been in the middle of her poisoning. “All we can do is try.”

And right now, all _they_ could do was wait for the men to come back with the news, either good or ill. Geralt doesn't like it one bit, but they’ve whiled away most of the day already, and the kidnapping exchange was to happen in a little under three hours. All they could do was hand over the things they’d found-the notes as evidence, and the vampire’s possessions to be delivered to Corvo Bianco-to the guards. At least they were handed fresh mounts so they could make good time back to the palace, and they came with enough time for everyone to get ready. Not that there was much preparation they could _do_ really, not knowing just what they were getting into and how big of a force they were going to encounter was a point of contention. There were only so many men he could hide in a graveyard without being detected, especially since it was a small one with hardly any trees or bushes. 

Gertrude made an appearance at that time, both she and Regis stepping through a portal. Apparently Ciri had dropped Regis off at Corvo Bianco now that Anna was safely in imperial care and protection. The duchess was stable at last and under the magical sedation courtesy of Phillipa. Later he would return to the imperial palace for a checkup, but for now, he had pleaded to return to Toussaint to render aid where he could, and after having Gertrude make _sure_ Dettlaff was contained for safety he had cajoled her into teleporting them both to the palace.

Damien looks greatly relieved. “Ah, some good news for once. Will she recover?”

“She should make a full recovery, given time. I will visit her in two days to check on her, but she’s past the worst of it.”

“Thank you Regis, your quick actions have saved her grace’s life. Doubtless you will be rewarded.” Damien said gratefully. 

Regis shook his head, waving away anything so trite as a reward. “I should think that seeing the duchess fully recovered from such an insidious thing as wolfsbane poisoning is more than enough for me, and all I ever wanted when I became a doctor simply because I wished to help in what ways that I can.”

Damien pauses, considering the vampire curiously for a moment, then says very quietly; “Let it be known that humans have no monopoly on altruism, good doctor.”

Regis blinks, taken aback, and looks like he doesn't quite know what to say. Damien lets him save face by turning to his men then, and Geralt gives the vampire a smug little smile. Regis narrows his eyes at him. 

“Do you have something insightful to say?”

“Still not used to being told you’re a good man, huh Regis?”

He supposes that’s it. After being enlightened to the full scope of the evils he’d perpetrated in his youthful ignorance and taking up the doctor’s life in the hopes he could save as many lives as he’d taken, he still was never really sure he was really capable of ever balancing the scales but feeling that he could do nothing but _try_ at least. It still came as a shock when his efforts were noticed by others and appreciated, and he wasn’t quite sure he’d _ever_ believe it when people told him he was a good man.

Geralt didn't give him the chance to stew in his discomfort by knocking him out of it-somewhat literally, by bumping shoulders with him-and jerking his head in the direction of the departing guard, reminding him that they had a kidnapped boy to rescue. Regis nodded and they moved out with the rest of the guard, heading to the cemetery at the edge of town. Once they arrived, Damien had the doppler scout first as a lop-eared cur, sniffing about the heaving graves and stubbly grass just to make sure there wasn't anyone lingering about the place watching for an ambush. He returned, shifting back into his guardsman appearance.

“Not a single extra body but the ones six feet under sir, and I doubt they’d be raising the alarm.”

Damien’s mustache twitched, and he and Geralt traded glances. Seemed too quiet to be true, and Damien doesn't like it, but there's not much they can really do except move forward with the plan, and he sighs. "Get into positions then; let's see if they actually attend the party then."

“I hate waiting.” Geralt muttered as they moved off, and Regis gave him a wry smile.

“One would think you’d be used to it in your profession.” The vampire teases. 

The witcher grumbled under his breath but they all settled in to wait, keeping an eye on the small clearing in the middle of the graveyard. Evening falls, giving them all a reprieve from the oppressive Toussiant summer sun, the haze of the day lifting. The evening chorus of birds, frogs, and mosquitoes start then, and it’s a real test of willpower not to swat them. They settle in clouds about the men and even the vampire is not immune to the tiny bloodsuckers, though they at least have no luck trying to pierce his skin. They try to go for his lips and eyes instead, and while he has a considerable reserve of willpower, it’s almost exhausted by the time there's any movement. 

At last, there’s the sound of feet, and a small group of men tops the rise. There are only three, all of them mounted on horseback, with the middle one holding a small form onto the saddle in front of him. Regis feels a rush of relief that he can see it’s a boy of perhaps thirteen, limp in the saddle but alive. Probably drugged into unconsciousness to make the transfer easier and so that he wouldn't be able to inform any would-be guardsmen interrogators where their base was, should the grandfather decide to go to them now that his grandson was safely back in his care.

They stopped a little ways away and waved Benoit-Janne over, and the transfer was almost too easy; they carefully pushed the boy out of the saddle into the waiting arms of the doppler looking almost bored with it, like they were doing little more than handing over a sack of potatoes. Benoit-Janne played his part well, babbling nervously, but they resolutely ignored him and turned their horses about in the middle of him speaking. As soon as they had rounded a bend the doppler hurried over, a worried look on his face.

“He’s breathing but-”

Regis did a quick exam, taking a whiff of the boy's breath, and he gave them a reassuring smile. “He’s simply drugged with a sedative; it will wear off in an hour or so with no ill effects other than a headache.”

They all sagged with relief, and the doppler handed him off to one of the other guards to be taken back to his grandfather. Geralt and Damien traded looks.

“That was…” Damien was looking thoughtful. “...Easy. Granted, they came on horseback so that they could make a quick escape if need be, but they _came._ No extortion for money, no threats of reprisal for letting on who had done this, and no injuries to the child.”

Regis gave the captain a curious look. “Is this unusual?”

“For kidnappers to keep their word? Extremely. I wasn't expecting anyone to show up, much less for them to not threaten Benoit. A smart kidnapper would not take the risk of being caught, and all signs point to this person behind everything being very clever indeed-it is a risk I was not expecting them to take.”

“One that we can take advantage of.” The doppler said, shaking himself. Once again the lop-eared dog was in front of them, and he trotted off to the spot where the kidnappers had stopped, sniffing about.

“Ah,” Regis nodded. “They can be tracked by your...ah, lieutenant?”

“Lieutenant Janne, yes. My most versatile of guards.” Damien said proudly, and the doppler wagged his tail happily at the praise. 

“Quite honestly, I’ve never understood the reluctance in using dopplers for their talents,” Regis commented, watching him work. “You’d think they would be used more often in this kind of work.”

“Possibly they are, but how would you know it?” Geralt added.

“Ah, true.” Regis noticed the doppler raise his head. “Oh, have you found the scent, [boy](https://i.imgur.com/kGErk28.jpg)?”

Janne gave him a withering look, and the vampire coughed in embarrassment. “...Sorry.”

The doppler huffed and turned to Damien, giving him a nod. The captain turned to his men and gave the order to mount up, and what practically amounted to an army hopped up onto their mounts. Regis raised an eyebrow at the sheer numbers and Geralt just tugged him over to his horse.

“You’ll be glad of the reinforcements, trust me.” Geralt explained. “There are three camps of mercenaries in this organization and I only managed to get rid of one that alone had at least fifty people in it. If this place is anything like that we’ll _need_ the numbers unless you feel like letting on to everyone what you are by tearing through them like you did at Stygga.”

“Seeing how well that turned out, I feel much better having half of the ducal guard at my back.” Regis said, smiling. “It’s times like these that I wish I’d learned to use a sword so I wouldn't be so reliant on my claws.”

“You could just punch them.” Geralt said, amused. “I think someone could lend you some knuckle dusters.”

Regis clambered up behind him, and thankfully the horse shifted uneasily but quieted easily under axii. He settled in as comfortably as he could behind Geralt-no small task, as Geralt’s studded armor was _meant_ to be uncomfortable for everyone but the wearer. “As amusing as the idea is to you, no thank you. I think I’ll get along just fine with my own bare hands and engage anyone that threatens me with a round of fisticuffs.”

In front of the entourage, Damien mounted as well. Taking a quick look back to make sure everything was in order, he gestured forward. “Move out!”

Behind him, the hoofbeats started, on their way to end this whole conspiracy at last.

* * *

You know, he really was _nothing_ like the bodice-rippers she’d read on occasion. 

No fangs on her breasts, no weird rutting phases (well, other than when he could smell her in _her_ horny phase, then all bets were off) and no obsession with blood-drinking. She’d _offered,_ but he’d just pulled a face and described blood as tasting like, well, copper; nothing _special_ about it other than the high, but he’d said that he tended to be an angry drunk and they’d left it at that. The only thing that seemed inhuman, animalistic, feral-?-not _quite_ the words she was looking for but those would do...so, the only thing of _that_ about him was the way he loved. It was simple, uncomplicated, and passionate. Oh, sure he was sexually passionate; the poor bastard, despite his handsome looks, was not the best at winning his way into anyone’s pants, and he didn't _do_ casual sex, so there was bound to be a lot of pent-up fucking to be done. Which was fine with her because she had quite the appetite and a varied one and while he was neither experienced nor inclined to some of the more... _interesting_ things she liked, he was nothing if not eager to please and more than able to get off on whatever activity she introduced so long as it had her in it. And he’d _actually follow directions instead of fumbling about, dear_ **_gods_ **which really makes all the difference, honestly.

More than that, he was simply passionate. She’d had a lot of lovers, but none of them had _loved_ her. Been fond of her. Made useful partnerships with her. But none that had ever been capable of the kind of courage that it took to be so open and exposed to her because let's be honest, she was the terrifying Rhenawedd who had fed her last lover to the dogs for trying to assassinate her and ruled her hansa with an iron fist in a velvet glove, and she’d worked _hard_ to be respected and feared. Granted, he was an unkillable demigod that could probably drink straight cyanide and like it for the almond taste, but even demigods could have their hearts broken, and he’d had a good share of that. He’d lost friends, been cast out from his family, and had been mocked and derided by his peers. And _yet_ he’d happily trotted over to her and dropped his heart at her feet because he’d seen the bit of her that had been a little girl once that loved plays and music boxes and had fallen in love with it. 

It was almost intimidating to be the target of such uncomplicated, intense ardor _._ She was too used to the cynical nature of previous relationships that were based on mutual convenience between people looking for power and looking to get off. Dettlaff, on the other hand, was her honest and sweet and naive tinkerer that was only ever capable of keeping her heart in a velvet box, not a duplicitous or vicious bone in his body. The only thing he wanted out of her was affection and sex, and sometimes that was a struggle with how long she’d gone without the first, but she was getting better at it; feeling like she was slowly growing just the kind of skills needed for this new kind of relationship. The most terrifying part of it was how it required her to stop being the callous Rhena, leader of the hansa, and be whoever she might have been without that persona enveloping her whole being like a protective shell. Worth it though, if she got to loll about in his lap feeding him chocolate bits, listening to him read in his wine-dark voice, and maybe wriggle over to suck his cock just to hear him stutter.

To her, Dettlaff was _bliss,_ he was a _sanctuary,_ and the longer this went on the less and less she could hear those nasty little hissing voices about how she was cursed with the black sun, how she was evil always evil no matter what she did _tainted tainted-_

-And maybe she wasn't like the girls in those books where a big strong man swooped in to save them and to fix their trauma, but having a man around who saw the better bits of her and loved them went a long way towards encouraging them to come out.

Well, that and the sex was _fantastic._ Win-win.

He’d given up on finishing the book and was whining in his throat, letting her do as she pleased, probably feeling as indolent and hedonistic as she was because she’d played with his hair in the bath earlier, combing it for ages. He was weak for having his hair stroked, and one of these days she wanted to brush him all over when he was in his bat form just to see him melt. 

She licked her way over the rapidly stiffening cock lazily. He was always easy to get up and off-he was still sensitive after nearly a year with her because he’d gone _decades_ without anything other than his hand-but he’d try his damndest to make sure she wasn't left high and dry, and in fact, he tried to reach for her to reciprocate. She gently pushed his hands back to the covers. “Relax love, it’ll keep. Just enjoy.”

And because he always took what was said at face value, he did. He was _marvelous_ at following directions. She licked a long stripe up his cock, and he moaned appreciatively. “Like it?”

“Always.” He breathed.

“You never complain.” She said, amused. “Even when we tried the harness.”

He gave her a confused look like that was such a silly thing to say, though the expression itself was hilarious because his eyes were already so glassy. “Nothing...to complain about.”

She grinned, and her mind just wallowed happily in the statement because if he said there wasn't anything to complain about, there _wasn't._ Ah, simplicity. She gave him a few more licks and sat up to stretch. He eyed her naked body appreciatively-there was a lot to appreciate, thank you-and he makes a happy little trill when she straddles his thighs. He makes those small noises when he’s comfortable enough, and she’s been able to get a variety of squeaks, clicks, or on rare occasions, low hisses when he really fucks her. 

“Beautiful.” He murmurs.

She preens under the praise. “Not so bad yourself.”

He really is the type example of ‘tall, dark, handsome’. Though to be honest her favorite bit is those cornflower blue peepers of his, and she kisses his brow right between them. He sighs happily, his hands kneading her ass like a cat, the tips of his somewhat pointed nails digging in just a touch. She grins, feeling that he’s more like her kitten than bat-hell, she’s pretty sure he’d been all but purring when she’d brushed his hair-and lets him knead while she strokes him. While she’s doing that she kisses him slowly, running her tongue over the blunted points of his teeth, wondering for the thousandth time how vampire men gave each other blowjobs without nicking each other. At least the nails were easy, he just kept the ones on his right hand trimmed.

She hummed contentedly into his mouth, idly thinking things over, and ran her finger just under the foreskin-

-and blinked in surprise at a breath of air whirling past her face, her ass hitting the mattress. She looks over to the corner and yup, there he was, curled with his claws and teeth showing a bit, shuddering. He’s staring off into space, and she bites her lip, worrying it between her teeth. Sometimes he’d have these...moments. She was never sure what would cause them, when they would happen, because they _didn't talk about them, never,_ other than her saying he was never to pin her and missionary was very much off the table, but that was all _her._

_He_ never made any demands, never drew any lines in the sand. He was too eager to please, always eager, and he was _shit_ at communicating. 

“Dettlaff,” She said quietly, “Dettlaff _breathe.”_

Vampires didn’t need to breathe often, but he’d told her about the technique that his friend had taught him, and it was one of the few things that helped him snap out of these states. She starts the counting and his eyes slowly come round to focus on her, the silver slowly returning to the blue as his breathing slows. Finally, he shudders and looks away, ashamed.

“...Sorry.”

She gives him a sad little smile and wraps herself in a sheet, approaching with a blanket for him. He takes it from her gratefully and puts it around his shoulders while she sits down next to him, just a little bit away.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” She says gently. And there really isn't, but she knows why he says it. The only sorry thing about this is that they live in a world where even a higher vampire isn't safe. She stays silent because they don’t talk about this, neither of them, other than sharing some kind of quiet solidarity about their respective Things We Don’t Talk About. She’s never going to ask, either, because she knows how much she doesn't want anyone to ask _her_ about the Torn Nightdress. 

For a moment they sit in silence until he reaches out to run his fingertips over her arm. “It’s passed.”

She breathed out a sigh of relief. “Do you want to head out early?”

Sometimes he feels like the walls are closing in on him and getting outside makes him feel better. He considers this and nods slowly. She pats his arm lightly and goes to dress, and by the time she’s finished he’s already behind a screen. He emerges momentarily wearing his favorite outfit that she’d picked out for him, the one with a vest in red silk brocade. Something about textures soothed him, so she’d gotten one with a simple repeating pattern. She watched him stroke his fingers over the vest a few times, and he looked up at her. He still seemed a bit tense, but the worst of it was gone, his eyes clear cornflower again with no hint of silver.

He looks as well as he’s going to get, and she nods approvingly. They head out of the inn then, riding a short way to the abandoned estate. They stop at the ruined gates, and she looks to Gregoir-well, _up._ He was anything but small.

“Open the door for us, if you wouldn't mind?”

He grunted an assent, and ripped the door off, tossing it away. Now they could ride through without dismounting and the wagon with the rest of them could trundle into the grounds. They stopped and the men fanned out looking around curiously. It seemed deserted, that quiet empty feel that buildings got when they hadn't been inhabited in years. She and a few of her men went to the main building, pausing to light a few lamps. 

“Damn thing won’t light.” She muttered, fiddling with hers.

A snort, a breath of the ozone tang of magic, and then the torch finally lit. She looked over to see Annabel smiling at her, amused.

“Oh hush, it was damp.” 

“Everything is.” Groused a voice on her left.

She turned to see Dettlaff flipping up the collar of the frock coat she’d given him for Beltane. He’d hardly parted with it since, even though as a vampire he wasn't that susceptible to cold. He _hated_ being wet though, just like the alleycat he was. She patted his arm soothingly, and he gave her one of his small smiles. 

“Sooner we get inside, sooner we can find some clues. _And,_ ” She stepped forward, “It’s probably drier in there.” 

They and her hansa follow. She’d brought a small contingent-twenty of her men-just to be on the safe side. Granted Dettlaff could shred most anything that might have taken up residence, but he could do nothing to wraiths, while a silver blade-according to Dettlaff-could. Seeing as how he’d been the one that had been friends with a witcher for years he was more of an authority on such things. She hoped it would work, the blades had been _expensive._

“Surprised he didn't take over the estate after his father died.” She commented, looking over the ruin. According to her reports, it had lain unclaimed after the death of the owner, then gone through a change of hands over the years until finally being abandoned for the last decade. The grounds were very overgrown, the outer buildings in bad shape, but the main one looked somewhat decent.

Dettlaff shook his head. “According to Toussaint law as a witcher, he could not inherit. His father disowned him and tried to have more children that could, but never managed.”

“Hmmm. Wonder if he found a loophole and that’s why he wanted him back…” She mused, looking about. It was dark and gloomy outside even though it was midday, and this was a much older style of building with few windows. Her lantern casts shadows in the grey light of the house and it’s a bit hard to see. They were supposed to come tomorrow, but she’s glad they did it today because from the look of the clouds hanging about the rainy season is going to start tomorrow and she did _not_ want to get caught in that. 

Her men mill about in the background, pocketing what little loot was to be found. This house had long since lost anything that might’ve belonged to Jerome so she’d given them free reign to take anything they wanted, but the pickings were slim. Sticky-hands Jack-her resident cat burglar-was idly picking the lock on an armoire with a detached, bored air, obviously picking it for something to do, not out of hope of actually finding anything in there. Boris watched him curiously rather than bothering digging through the dining room drawers for silverware like the others, holding up the lantern so Jack could see better. He’d apprenticed himself to the man a month ago and already knew the basics, but a refresher was always in order.

She left them to it and prowled the estate, wandering from room to empty room, finding nothing but dust and broken knickknacks. She sighed, of the opinion that they weren't going to find any clues in an abandoned estate owned by Jerome’s father over a hundred years ago. It had been two months since he’d met her and this search had started, and she had yet to find any clues of where the witcher was. She was strongly leaning towards the man’s bones rotting in a crypt or swamp somewhere, killed by one monster or another, but when it came to Dettlaff hope sprang eternal and she didn't have the heart to shove reality in his face. 

She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Jack and Boris looking excited. “Find something boys?”

“Yeah, a secret passage,” Boris rumbled. “Just like in a play.”

Her eyebrows lifted and she followed them back to the little side room they’d been in before, rather intrigued. The heavy armoire was open now, and she could see the two had discovered the false back. The passageway was, if anything, even _more_ dusty and covered in cobwebs than the rest of the house, so it was a good bet it hadn't been disturbed in years. They lean in, lanterns held up, and there's a few rough wood steps leading into the dark.

“I’ll go first.” Dettlaff volunteered, and both Boris and Jack made tiny sighs of relief. She rolled her eyes at them, though she can’t _really_ blame them. No idea what might be down there, though she doubted it was a monster. The thing would have starved by now, trapped in what was probably a cellar. More likely they were going to find a smuggler’s den or some serial killer’s dungeon. She hoped it was the first, fisstech fetched a good price on the market.

She handed him a lantern-technically he didn't _need_ it, but her men didn't need to know her lover was anything other than human-and Dettlaff slowly descended, doubtless letting his eyes adjust. She knew he could see in the dark no matter how black it was, but it took him a minute or two. She waited patiently as her two men fidgeted nervously.

“Hmm.” Dettlaff sounded...unsure. “You may wish to stay at the top for a moment.”

“What have you found?”

“Insectoids.” He said, followed by a chittering noise.

Oh gods, she _hated_ giant insects. Little ones that were a normal, reasonable size were fine, sure, but the big ones made her skin crawl. She hated having bases in the wilds just because more often than not the wilds were infested with them, and Dettlaff made a point of sending his fleders and garkains out into the woods around the bases a day or two before her visits to them to eradicate them. The blasted things must have dug in under the foundations, and she listened as her lover went to work on the horrid creatures. Boris and Jack listened too, looking unsure.

“Should the men...help him?” Jack suggested, and she couldn't help but notice he didn't exactly offer _his_ help.

She gave him an amused look. “Volunteering?”

A high-pitched squeal and a thump from below.

Jack shifted nervously away. “...Uh.”

She snorted and shook her head. “Relax, he can handle himself.”

They waited, and presently Dettlaff wandered back up. There was gunk in his hair and on his coat, and used to him being covered in various insectoid innards she pulled out a rag from her satchel. He toweled off and wrapped the coat in it as well.

“You really need to stop getting that thing covered in icor, or it’s never going to last.” She said, faintly amused.

“I’ve never really learned how to kill things neatly.” He said, tucking it under an arm. 

She snorted, amused, and they descended; slapping cobwebs out of the way.

“I was unable to really look before they attacked.” He said, waving a hand over to a gaping hole in one of the walls. It was currently stoppered up with some crates and rocks, the trail of yellow icor leading to it. He’d been conscientious enough to shove the body of the insectoid into the tunnel, thankfully, so she wouldn't have to see the horrid thing, but she still grimaced at it.

Boris and Jack give the hole wary looks but still went to go look about in the hopes that they might find _something_ worth some coin. They may have actually found something here, as this place was full of undisturbed equipment. Dettlaff looks intrigued, tapping the glass containers full of strange specimens, mostly monster organs. “This must have been part of his father’s lab. Jerome said the top level was more for everyday solutions, while the bottom level was for the more volatile, dangerous ones.”

She looked around. “Well, also I figure out that when you’re a famous alchemist people want to steal your work. Having a hidden lower level would help keep it safe.”

Jack snorted. “Or the equipment. These tools are gold! I mean, gold-plated, but _still.”_

“Gold cannot be corroded,” Dettlaff explains, shifting a few boxes. “Vital for some types of alchemy, I imagine.”

Boris gives her a pleading look and she nods, giving permission. They happily set to work grabbing them, and she knows they’ll sell them for a tidy little profit. As for alchemy secrets…

“Jack, be a dear and get Annabel? She’ll be able to make sense of this man's scribbles. If we’re lucky we can sell his secrets too.”

The two men nod and head up, concealing the tools on their persons on the way so the others won’t harass them, and she snorts. She wanders about slowly, staring closely at the diagrams, not _really_ able to make sense of them, but pocketing them anyway. She takes some of the journals as well, thumbing through a few. They’re neatly numbered, dates recorded next to each entry on the page, and while many had nearly incomprehensible formulas some of them were written in plain-if formal-language. She flips along, not really paying attention as words like _spagyric, anima mundi, witcher mutations, latrochemistry, Audbhida-_

She blinks and flips back.

- _Witcher mutations are a rather mysterious subject, but one I find myself resentfully forced to pursue. The hidden arts of stripping humanity from a subject to make them into nothing more than a tool, a weapon, is not something I ever wished to engage in. I only ever liked the intellectual pursuit of knowledge, finding some curative for diseases that plague humanity, but never went down darker roads that my peers had trodden. Never was I interested in the various insidious ways that alchemy can be bent to. The potions that tear away reason, the vapors that render men into beasts. But I find myself turning down this path in the hopes that I will find my son at the end of it and lead him back to me, whole and untainted, free of his witcherism._

Well, that would make sense. The loophole that his father could exploit was turning his son back into a normal man; if he’d found a way to do that it would explain why he’d tracked him down to re-establish his relationship with Jerome. But if that was the case, why had the estate fallen into the hands of others instead of his son…? She frowned and looked up to see Dettlaff was holding up a suit of armor, green with brass trim and his face was... _wistful_. He turned to see her looking, and his eyes were looking a bit too wet.

“A full set of grandmaster Griffin armor.” He said quietly. “He’d been saving for _ages_ to get it.”

He sniffed it delicately, and looked disappointed. “...Doesn’t smell like him anymore.”

Oh, that _can’t_ be a good sign. His expensive, very specialized gear packed neatly into a box in his father’s basement? She can't imagine a witcher leaving one of his most prized possessions anywhere unless he didn't need it anymore. And the circumstances where he wouldn't need it anymore under were...not good.

_Think positively Rhena._ **_Positively_ ** _. Maybe he_ **_did_ ** _become a normal man and told his dad to fuck off with his estate and became a wandering minstrel like Dettlaff said he wanted to do. Maybe he went about shagging and singing and dying of being in a bed that he shouldn't have. With any luck, we can find some great-great-grandson of his that Dettlaff can pal around with._

Dettlaff peered at the journal she was holding curiously. “Did you find something?”

“...Maybe.” She looked at the entry. “Apparently his father was looking for a way to make Jerome human.”

Dettlaff looked...uncomfortable. “Jerome...never really _wanted_ to be a witcher.”

She blinked. The thought had never occurred to her that he’d resent it but…she looked up at the house above her, big and roomy and one time probably very comfortable, rich, _privileged_ . “Well, guess _I_ would resent being taken away from all that to be forced into the life of a wandering mercenary.”

And oh, could she sympathize with that. In so many ways…

Dettlaff, too, was looking up at the house, face sad. “He missed his father, mother. His home.”

...and she could bet Dettlaff sympathized with that, in his own personal way. She remembered the vampire saying _‘Father never wanted to see me again, he kept seeing too much of my mother in me, too much of_ **_her_ ** _, and at some point, I was unsure if what he was seeing was just a projection of his fears or if it was...’_

She gently ran a hand down his arm, knocking him out of his thoughts. Dettlaff shuddered out of them, releasing his too-tight grip on the armor. 

“Here,” She handed the journal over, a distraction. “They’re dated, maybe if you find an entry about the time he made contact with you, you’ll find when they met up to make up, hm? I’ll see about finding anything useful here; and we can pack up the armor and take it with us for safekeeping.”

He nods gratefully and she leaves him to it, turning to the table to gather more of the entries. The one he was currently holding was the last one in the series, and it was the work of a moment to pop the rest into her bag. There are more diagrams of strange machines that she can’t make heads nor tails of-no, literally, she has no idea if the diagram she’s holding is the right way up-and she has to give up and take them upstairs so Annabel could make sense of this damn thing.

The mage is currently bent over the hand of one of her men, which was swollen horribly. “The hell?”

He looked embarrassed. “One of those big bug babies was crawlin’ about and I kilt it.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “By swatting it, of course. With _your bare hand.”_

He nodded sheepishly, and she prayed for strength. Honestly, it was like being in charge of children sometimes. “For the love of-Annabel, is he going to lose his hand?”

The man looked alarmed-clearly, he hadn't thought of that possibility-but the mage shook her head. “He’s lucky it was a little one. I’ve taken care of the pain already, and he should have full use of it back in a fortnight. “

The man-Devin? Yeah, Devin-sags with relief. “Oh thank the gods. Thought fer a sec I’d lose my hand!”

“Yes, can’t go swatting _obviously poisonous_ and _extremely spiky_ bugs without one, I imagine.” She said sardonically, and he cringed under her glare. “Double duty for you, you moron. Hope the lesson sticks.”

His best mate gives him a dope slap for good measure and he does his best to curl away from them both but with his hand pinned to the table under the mage’s care he really has nowhere to go. He ends up looking like he’s trying to be a new table cover, an ugly one. She sighs and takes out the diagram so Annabel can look it over while she tends to the man’s poor decisions, looking it over for a long moment. 

“...I think it’s a transmuter of some sort.” She squints at the text. “Ah, here it is-yes, looks like it's meant to change one mutagen to another, though really what you’d use it for and what a mutagen is...well, it’s anyone’s guess. It’s really only of use to witchers honestly, afraid we’d get no use out of it. Some alchemists might be interested though, a few of them would _love_ to get their hands on witcher secrets.”

Rhena taps her chin, thinking. “Well, I could always try to see if I can sell this to one then. Think we might have found something worthwhile in this place then; the original owner was studying witcher mutations.”

Annabel raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well then, go and get what else you can find then and I’ll take a look. I’d offer to go with but, well-” She looked down at Devin. “-I’m a bit _tied up_ here.”

She snorts, tucks it into her bag, and leaves Annabel to it while she evaluates what they have downstairs. She’ll go back down and gather what she can of the paper research and check the equipment to see what they can move. The huge copper still is just too big to bother with, but the smaller, specialized equipment will doubtless be worth quite a lot, especially since it had once belonged to a famous alchemist. She could potentially get some extra cash if she can find a collector for this kind of thing…

Buoyed by those happy thoughts, she doesn't immediately notice there's something wrong. She’s finished tucking away the rest of the journals, and when the rustling stops she can hear it. Faint gasps, like someone in the middle of being choked, struggling for air. She frowns, raising her lantern, confused that the only one lit is hers. The dark of the basement presses in on her, thick and impenetrable, and she frowns.

“...Dettlaff?”

No answer. She felt a sense of unease settle on her shoulders, making them tense, and she followed the faint sound cautiously. She almost steps on the broken lantern, glass glinting in the low light and oil leaking all over the floor where it had fallen. Next she finds the journal she’d left with Dettlaff, and she carefully picks it up, tucking it into her bag with everything else. A few more cautious steps and she finds her lover, curled and shaking in the corner. His claws are fully unsheathed, unlike earlier when they’d showed a little but hadn’t fully realized into the yard-long sickles she usually only saw when he killed those blasted insects for her.

Right now it looked like he was having another one of those fits, and she kneeled carefully in front of him. “Dettlaff? Breathe for me, come on, _breathe.”_

No response. He kept making those choking noises, his face hidden by his claws. It almost sounds like he’s crying, but she’d heard him cry after waking from a nightmare and this isn't quite the same. She tries again and starts counting, but the gasps seem to be getting _worse,_ not better.

“In, one...two..three, out, three...two...one-”

He makes a loud screech, cutting her off, and pitches forward onto all fours. A low moan starts deep in his chest and then he starts to _shift,_ skin and muscle roiling in a horrifying way, the vest-his favorite vest-shredding as he starts to grow. She keeps calling his name, desperately, but he doesn't seem to hear anything. She even tries to put a hand on his cheek but he thrashes his head, teeth snapping and almost biting through her arm. She scrambles back, eyes wide with terror. Even when he’d been in the middle of the worst of his spasms he’d never tried to hurt her, _never-_

He continues growing, changing, his eyes receding, and becoming covered by smooth skin, hair falling away. He’s filling the room now, shoulders pushing up the rafters, and there's nothing left of Dettlaff there because he’s lost it, lost it completely _and he will kill her._

She wants to turn tail, take flight, _get out while she can,_ but he’s right by the stairs, too huge to get past, so she’s trapped. _Trapped_. 

She presses flat against the wall, fear and the certainty of death crushing her against it, and she doesn’t stand a chance against this. _To be fair, what chance did you ever stand?_ Some little part that's still capable of thought muses. _Should have seen this coming, honestly-an unstable, unkillable blood-drinking monster and all you saw was a prince out of a fairy tale. But now he’s showing his true colors and he’s just a fox at the rabbit hole._

Her eyes are still flicking about, looking for a place to run, even though she knows there’s nowhere to-

_...rabbit hole._

-her eyes land on the wall with the trail of yellow icor leading to the pile of rubble and she dashes for it, clawing broken wood and dirt out of her way until her fingernails rip, hearing a moaning hiss on her heels. She crawls in on her belly like a rat, too pissing terrified to feel the sting of the insectoid blood on her arms.

Once she’s in she puts her hands over her ears so she can’t hear the screams. _The screams of her men, of Boris and Jack and Annabel and even stupid, stupid Devin-_

_-And if the digging starts, she doesn't want to hear that either. She’d rather die in ignorance, seeing nothing than the back of her eyelids rather than that nightmare maw, reaching for her, for her-_

  
  
  



	17. Bats in the belfry, eagles in the egress

  
  


* * *

She gasps.

She’s not in the tunnel, and the only sound she hears is a dog barking outside and the squeak of a wagon. She’s sitting at her writing desk, rubbing at the crease the edge had given her forehead while she’d napped after writing the last letter, instead of feeling over the stinging acid burns on her arms. The air is heavy with the smell of burning candles, not blood.

She’s safe.

_ Safe. _

For now.

For now, she doesn't have to look over her shoulder, wonder if he’s close, if he’s found her yet. For now, he’s at the bottom of a lake in pieces, and once her men trawl for the remains and inject them with the formula, he’ll  _ stay  _ at the bottom of the lake for good. Him, and all the others-no way is she taking any chances that there's another Dettlaff out there, just a hair's breadth away from going on a rampage killing everyone around them indiscriminately because some small trigger set them off. Or that they'd decided that being unstoppable demigods meant they could keep people like rabbits in hutches. 

_ When she’d said they didn't need so much damn serum for just one vampire, the alchemist she’d employed to make it had given her a lovely little book called ‘Human Husbandry and Care’. She’d thrown it across the room halfway through.  _

After that, she let him make as much as he damn well pleased.

She’d keep her subjects safe from this threat, and be a better ruler than her minstrel-shagging, feather-mattress sister who had no idea what  _ real life  _ was like down among the masses while she spewed silly little mantras about the goodness of knights and how peasants should be honest and obedient to their ‘betters’. Soon, she’ll have her crown and her power and she’ll never have to worry about being a scared and bleeding teen in a torn nightdress, or a rabbit caught in the storm of an insane demigod. She’ll never be vulnerable again. Soon.

It would all be over soon.

“Syanna.” A knock. “You in?”

She sighed. Never a spare moment to herself. “What do you want Gaetan?” 

“Got you a present.”

“Aw, you remembered my birthday.” She said sardonically. “Come in.”

He kicked open the door and dragged in-well. Not exactly what she was expecting.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for the responsibility.” She said, looking over the freckled boy. “I don’t have the time to take him for walks. And what if he makes a mess?”

“I’m self-cleaning.” The boy slurs. Clearly, the sedative hasn't worn off.

“Well, at least this one’s more entertaining than the other. The last one just kept crying and getting snot on everything.” She looked up at the witcher and glared at him. “What are we, an orphanage? Stop stealing children already!”

“Well, what else are we going to feed the creepy basement alchemist?” He snarks. 

She rolls her eyes. “ _ Why  _ did you grab this one in particular? Other than as a new test subject?”

“This one knows a few tricks.” He said, then smacked him heartily on the back. “Speak boy!”

The boy staggers forward, though remarkably stays on his feet. “I overheard people talking!”

“Congratulations, you abducted the town gossip.” She got down on a knee in front of the boy. “ _ Who  _ specifically?”

“Uh, some white-haired witcher and the captain of the guard, Damien!”

She arched an eyebrow and looked up Gaetan. “Same one from the lab?”

He nodded, and she returned her attention to the kid. “What did you overhear?”

“Well, uh, I might say if-”

“If I don’t hand you over to our resident mad scientist? No guarantees, but I can make sure he uses anesthetic when he saws off a limb. Or two, if he’s got the time.”

Oliver swallowed. Oh, he’d take Damien’s haggling any day, she was good at this. Terrifyingly so. “-Uh, t-they had me take them to a toyshop that one of my customers squatted in. Then they started talking about getting his girl back; Wren-something?”

_ Dettlaff’s hideyhole. They know it, know him, and that he’s being-shit, how did they find that out?! He’s at the bottom of a fucking lake! _

“And then they said something about a picture of her and Damien was going to copy it-uh, and then Damien said he’d drawn her before, that she looks like the duchess’s  _ sister,  _ but the duchess don’t have a sister, so I might’ve misheard that-uh,” Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face because he backed away nervously. “And then D-Damien asked if Dettlaff would wake up soon and Mr. White said he’d been unconscious for the last few days. L-last I heard Damien said they had an ‘ambush to get ready’, and  _ he”  _ Oliver jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the cat witcher “Grabbed me. That’s all I heard, honest! I-”

Syanna ignored his entreaties, standing in a rush. “Dose him up and shove him off on the men, we need to leave.  _ Now.” _

Gaetan gave her a confused look. “What-”

“Who’s the one that’s avoided the law for damn near fifteen years and  _ didn't  _ get multiple bounties put on her head in multiple countries and get stabbed by a goddamn pitchfork?” She snapped at him. She didn't give him a chance to answer, pointing at herself. “ _ This  _ bitch. You better believe I have a sixth sense for traps, and one is about to spring on us. Now get packing! And tell that damn alchemist to  _ only  _ take the essentials or I’m leaving him here to get flayed alive by the ethics committee!”

“Oh no, not  _ again-” _ Oliver managed to get out as he slapped the cloth over his mouth. 

Gaetan dragged him out, shooting glares at her the whole way. She ignored him because what the hell was he going to do, assassinate her? And then subsequently get thrown into jail because the rest of her men decided to collect the bounty and they outnumbered him fifty to one? He was a skinny little cat witcher still recovering from a crossbow bolt, he couldn't possibly take them all on; not like that damned force of nature wolf witcher who took out one of her bases single-handedly (gods damn him; if they managed to catch him she’d feed him to the alchemist shop of horrors downstairs). Oh, he knew what side his bread was buttered on all right, he wouldn't  _ dare.  _ Especially not after the stunt he pulled in the lab; the moron had  _ wasted  _ that damn mutanagen on himself, and now they’d have to find a way of catching a higher vampire to harvest from. 

_ “Why don’t we just use Dettlaff?” The alchemist had asked. “He’s so convenient; comes pre-tenderized.” _

_ And she’d looked around at his lab; the bubbling vials, the twitching subjects, and while Dettlaf was a monster that had killed her men and terrorized her dreams that she wanted dead so very, very badly- _

_ But she remembered the music box, and knew there were worse things than death. That there were other monsters walking about, some of them human. _

She frowned, grabbed the wine bottle she’d picked up as an indulgence before poisoning the rest, got her bags, and left.

* * *

“Safe to say they were warned,” Damien said, sheathing his sword.

“Afraid so.” Regis concurred, picking through the room, looking for clues. Geralt also sniffed about, his mouth-Regis noted with some interest-opened slightly to catch more scent.  _ Interesting, I wonder if he truly has the anatomy for that; if so that must have been immensely delicate surgery- _

“That smell again. Our cat witcher was here too, and Oliver. So our bootblack is still alive.”

Damien looked greatly relieved. “With any luck, we’ll find him among the stragglers here. Would you be able to track Gaetan?”

Geralt shook his head. “I already checked. I would have if they’d gone on foot, but they left in a wagon. Tried following the wagon ruts but they went on the main thoroughfare and it got muddied.”

“Damn them,” Damien growled. 

“You could try interrogating the men that were left behind?” Regis suggested.

“Ah, it's worth a try. Doubt she told them where she’d be going.”

Regis gave him a curious look. “ ‘She’?”

Geralt and Damien traded glances. “...Yes doctor, she.” The captain volunteered. “Ah, it’s-well. It’s not good news.”

Geralt nodded and started walking him through what they’d found out, Damien adding a comment here and there. By the end of it Regis was feeling sick, pacing the room in agitation.

“I...are you certain. Absolutely certain.” 

“There is no way to know for  _ absolute _ certain without having her write a confession, but yes. Rhena, Syanna-one, and the same. It fits too well for the formerly banished elder sister looking to retake her rightful place as duchess. Safe to say our theory of a former enemy of Dettlaff’s spearheading this was incorrect-I can bet she’s the one in charge.” Damien said. 

“That, and the man in charge of this estate? Ran into him. He confirmed the woman in charge was Syanna. He’d been fond of her when she’d been a kid in Toussaint-he thought he was taking her in.” Geralt added. 

“I can’t believe she…” Regis stopped, looking out the window, his face twisted in anguish. “She used him as a  _ tool _ . Forced him to murder innocent men for her. Made him believe that a person he loved was in mortal danger. What-what...”

“ ‘Callousness’? Well, what can one expect of a person that steals children like some fairy tale wicked witch.” Damien suggested, obviously still incensed over Oliver’s kidnapping.

Geralt approached Regis and laid a hand on his shoulder comfortingly, trying to reassure the doctor because the expression on the vampire’s face was deeply concerned.

Regis looked at him, his face pinched with anguish. “What am I going to tell Dettlaff? He’ll be devastated by this news.”

“Nothing.” Geralt said.

“But I left him a note saying we’d bring her back, that-”

“Regis, trust me. You should wait to tell him until he’s healed up a bit so he doesn't go berserk and end up tearing out all his stitches, or end up hurting someone. I know he’s inside a ward but...”

Regis subsided for a moment, feeling torn. He didn't want to keep secrets from his friend; it felt...wrong. The other vampire was so incapable of seeing deceptions that it was easy to lie to him, so easy it felt very much like taking advantage. And Dettlaff trusted him implicitly, he could feel it in the bond, but he could also feel at times how uneasy and almost  _ desperate  _ the younger vampire was to have his friendship, his approval; betraying that trust by keeping things from him...it would gut him. 

On the other hand…

On the other hand, he can’t count the number of times Dattlaff has misted off after growing frustrated at being unable to fix a broken wheel, or clenched his fists until his nails cut into his palms because he burnt what he’d been cooking. When he’d first gone for a walk in the woods after healing enough to do so, he’d been...disturbed at how many trees outside of his house bore claw marks, or were toppled completely. Never had the rage been directed at him physically-or mentally, through the bond-but the sheer number of trees that he’d let his ire out on had left an impression. He very likely  _ would  _ go into a fury born of grief and betrayal and end up tearing himself apart because of it. And just because he was in a ward didn't guarantee people around him was safe; it was semi-permeable and only designed to keep  _ Dettlaff _ in. 

“I...well. Perhaps you’re right. ” He took a breath, and let it out slowly. “Very well, I’ll...keep this from him. For now.”

Geralt gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and let him go so he could ruminate over his own worries. Regis wasn't the only one feeling uneasy about all this; Geralt, too, wasn't sure just how bad this would be. Now that Dettlaff had no ‘Rhena’ to recover in a last-ditch attempt to stave off the creeping suicidal depression, he was going to probably go to ‘plan B: force Regis to kill me’. He  _ could  _ try to swap out Jerome for Rhena, but he’s sure the unstable vampire wouldn't take too kindly to _ ‘well, turns out your lover was using you as an assassin to further a plot to take over the throne, but hey, good news! Your buddy is alive. Well, he’s been horribly mutated and probably has a lot of issues from the experimentation, but it’s the thought that counts?’ _

Yeah,  _ that  _ would go over well.

Although...the bit about how Dettlaff is looking to kill himself and might try to force Regis to do it was also not going to go over well with Regis either. His request that Regis put it off, for now, was less out of concern for the younger vampire and more a desperate stall for time while he scrambles for a means to deal with a suicidal higher vampire. He’s also having difficulties trying to think of a way to tell Regis, and still hasn't found a way while he’s following Damien out, mounting up, and even when he’s riding back to the estate with Regis behind.

“How long have you known Dettlaff?”

“Oh, technically for about two years. Most of it was spent unconscious though.”

Geralt is silent for a long time. “You said he had nightmares. Did he always have them, since you knew him?”

“I...well, he doesn't talk about them, but I assume so.”

“You also  _ ‘assume’  _ that they’re caused by being telepathically connected with the lower vampires.” 

Regis almost,  _ almost  _ went ‘yes of course’, but he pauses. “I’ve a feeling that you don’t think so.”

For a moment, there's nothing but the clopping of hooves. 

“You’re a doctor Regis.” Geralt says slowly. “Seen a lot. Treated a lot.”

Regis stays silent, waiting.

“Did you ever try to treat more than...physical wounds?” He says quietly, “The kind that people get seeing...things. Having things...happen to them. That doesn't leave a mark.”

“Geralt,” He says in a very small voice, “What are you trying to say?”

“Trying to say that you’ve seen it before, that you know the signs. That  _ you- _ not because you didn’t care or...want to see it-have a blindspot when it comes to…”

_ He can’t...no. No that's not _ \- “It’s not  _ possible.  _ We vampires-”

“-Are very powerful. Very durable. Probably the strongest things out there; or close to it.” Geralt paused. “...But you're not invulnerable.”

He can’t breathe; it’s like there’s a vice around his chest because...because it fits. The  _ rage  _ carved into so many trees. The ceaseless apologies for stepping the least bit wrong. Dettlaff hovering over him, worrying _.  _ The nightmares-

Geralt is looking at him over his shoulder, the face flat and calm,  _ knowing.  _ “You had nightmares too, huh. Don’t think I missed the way your heart sped up when you talked about what it was like after you were incinerated, caught-”

Regis tensed and looked away.

“...Sorry.” Geralt said, his voice softening. “Never been good at...don't mean to be so blunt.”

Regis is quiet for a moment. “...You have no other way of being except blunt, my dear friend.”

His voice is equally soft, a little rueful perhaps. But it’s not angry. He’s saving that for himself, for missing the obvious. It’s not just the presumed invulnerability of vampires that blinded him its...it’s Dettlaff, himself. He’s different from other vampires; his inability to detect lies, his strangely flat voice with little inflection, his face so...unchanging, like he doesn't know how to properly express things on it. So much of him differed from his own or others of his kind that all the other things could have been so easily explained away as quirks unique to him.  _ Had  _ been. Now that he’s opened his eyes he can’t stop seeing it, can’t shuffle it under the rug of ‘that’s just  _ Dettlaff’.  _

He lets his head rest against Geralt’s back, in the one spot without silver studs. It’s still not comfortable, but he needs some contact. The witcher doesn't comment, just lets him take as long as he needs. Regis does nothing more than watch their two shadows move across the ground in the light of the nearly-full moon for a while. Only two, not three, of course. No shadow for him. Not for a vampire. In so many ways they are so different-

_ Except in the ways that we are the same. _

“I’m starting to think,” Regis started slowly, “That killing one another isn't the only taboo subject in our culture.”

Geralt says nothing to that, letting the clopping of hooves fill in the silence for a moment.

“I know that you can’t keep him in the dark forever,” Geralt finally starts, “But when you tell him...be careful. Don’t want to lose you a second time.”

The last is said very quietly, and it takes a moment for Regis to parse it. “What-do you think he’ll try to…”

“I think,” Geralt said slowly, “That this might be the last straw on a camel’s back. And if he does snap he might...not be thinking clearly. Might try to…”

He trails off, because he can’t say it. Can’t frame that kind of resigned, tired despair like being stuck at the bottom of a pit trap with no way out but one. Can’t say what Dettlaff might try to get that relief, that release, but attacking Regis to force him to kill him in self-defense would be his first guess. Problem is, he  _ knows  _ Regis will refuse to kill him or even do much to fight back and if he doesn't Dettlaff might- 

He might, at the end of all this, be unable to protect his best friend that he’d thought he’d lost. He’d lost so many in stygga that getting one back felt like fate, like a god-granted  _ miracle  _ and he cant-he  _ can’t  _ lose him again. But his hands are tied; he knows he can’t stop Regis from trying to care for this trauma-riddled wreck of a vampire any more than he could keep him away from changing Dandelion’s bandages at the point of a sword.

He turns in the saddle so that he can meet his eyes. “ _ Please  _ be careful Regis.”

Regis met his gaze, his expression threaded with a quiet kind of pain. “I will try, Geralt.” He replied softly. 

They stare at each other for a long moment, like it might be the last time; and then continued on, the horse’s hooves once again the only sound in the silence.

* * *

He paused at the top of the stairs to think; or, well, gather his courage, to be honest. He could practically hear Jerome in his head chiding him about becoming too obsessed like he’d done in the past when he’d found a new technique or field of interest and become almost instantly fascinated with it too the point he sank in far more money than he could afford into supplies and equipment, and the witcher would have to drag him out of his workshop to eat or sleep.

Never in his life had that same obsession landed on a  _ person  _ before though. It had taken roots very quickly; only a handful of encounters in and he’d felt the same pull that he’d felt when he’d seen a clocktower for the first time that had led to him becoming a tinkerer. But unlike that occasion he couldn't just go to a library and read on the subject until his eyes hurt to satisfy it; oh no. Not that he hadn't tried, of course. He’d done everything and anything to research this, starting with some terrible romance novels from at least two cultural backgrounds; nazair and zerrikania, respectively, to be representative in his sampling. The nazairi one had been more...explicit, while the zerrikanian one was slightly more relatable, with an obsession about hair and grooming of said hair he could appreciate.

(Though why they insisted on covering it was anyone’s guess. On full moon nights  _ everyones _ hair-or fur-was on full display, and grooming one another was common among lovers. And, well, licking fur usually led to...licking more than fur.) 

He’d taken notes on them until he’d gotten kicked out of the bookstore for reading without buying. He then went across town to another bookseller and found one book on how to properly conduct a diplomatic marriage and took notes on that. He’d also gotten his hands on opera librettos and cheaply printed knockoffs of popular plays and underlined the relevant bits, and  _ then  _ went through gossip rags for relevant keywords to his search. He found one story with said keywords about the mayor of one town over being sued for breach of contract by the oldest uncle of a teenaged burgher girl he got pregnant, paying one pregnant milk cow and two barrels of pickled herring to compensate the family for the girl’s lost virginity. 

He’d even found terrible pornographic picture-books to at least get an idea of how things... _ worked _ , from a man who smelled of general unwashedness and horse meat that was selling them as scrolls wrapped around twigs. He was surprised and somewhat...disappointed that the basics were really just the same as in his own species, though he imagined that he’d have to be gentler than he would with the alps that operated on the periphery of his sprawling pack. He liked them in an abstract way, and they were sentient, sure, but you couldn't exactly hold a conversation with one and he wanted a relationship that was more than them coming in, having sex, and then leaving after. 

He’d scribbled notes all over  _ those _ until the numbers and arrows and grid-lines he added made them look like perverted architectural diagrams trying to figure out just how one went from the handholding and sharing sweets to ‘shoving his raging prick into her wet cunt while her sister watched’ and then got lost in trying to envision something similar with Rhena and that one bruxa friend he’d known  _ years  _ ago until he’d taken himself in hand at his desk and ruined all his careful notes. He hated himself a bit after that, staring at the stewn bits of paper and trying not to berate himself more than he had been since this whole thing started.

-And then he’d summarized the notes with bullet points and stuffed all of it into a hatbox.

Human customs of finding and keeping a mate were different than his own species with it mostly hinging on gaining or keeping lands and titles through marriage, or producing viable offspring. The most common method was having a girl working in the fields under supervision with the two to three other unrelated boys in the village, with the one she liked best being paired off with her and sent to herd sheep. Alone. In the mountains. For at least three months. It was never directly  _ stated  _ that they would spend those three months fucking like rabbits, but considering that if she came back successfully impregnated a wedding would follow, it was generally implied. In other cases, women were given as gifts along with land, titles, money, livestock, etc. as a package to a man with sufficient holdings himself to feed and house her so she could produce children for him to continue his family line, and it was all negotiated by the parents of the male and female. A lot of it seemed to focus on producing children; logical for such a short-lived, frail species that depended heavily on a high rate of production to balance out the equally high rate of attrition. Generally, it’s quite simple, straightforward, and mostly orchestrated by the parents. While he does like the ease of use of such rules,  _ none of it applies to his situation. _

The only thing that came close to matching the way his fingertips itch whenever he saw her like they wanted to pick up tools that had nothing to do with tools was the plays and romances. Their manner of describing the obsessive, consuming nature of love struck a similar enough chord with him. The way he’d felt at her lighting up at her discovery of his former role as ‘Drosselmeyer’ was  _ almost  _ the way star-crossed lovers were supposed to light up when seeing each other for the first time. He wanted to see that again, that little sliver of sweetness and he wanted to kindle that in her in any way he could; but he doubts he could find a golden dragon to slay for her, and she wasn't under some curse that he could cure.* 

He sighed, shuffling around on the landing, feeling woefully underprepared despite his research. His effort of last resort was taking a leaf out of the lesser vampires book: presenting gifts. Now, she would be less enthused if the ‘alleycat’ she’d taken in dragged an  _ actual  _ dead animal to her door, but he’d worked as a tinkerer long enough to know from Dalia’s reports that his music boxes had been a very popular item for all ages; from simplistic ones for children to beautifully ornamented ones for adults. He’d always sold out of them around Beltane, when it was common to exchange gifts as a physical token of one's affection for friends, family members, or lovers. Now, it wasn't Beltane-not even close-but she’d mentioned, in passing, in a conversation he’d managed to overhear, that her birthday was sometime this month. Human conventions stated that gifts could  _ also  _ be given on birthdays; he knew that much. So, now, he just had to...give her one.

Just...walk up the steps.

...At least just  _ one _ -

He hisses in frustration at himself and at least has the control to mist and then go pinging off the walls harmlessly rather than slashing up chairs, but it's a near thing. He stops at last, gripping his gold moth pin. It had been a gift-and inspiration for giving one-from Dalia, all those many, many years ago. As much as he misses his brother, he misses  _ her _ in cases like these. Jerome had never been one for romance (‘food and wine and whores Detty, that’s all I need’) or...feelings of  _ any _ kind really, experiencing them or discussing them, but Dalia had always been as good with untangling emotions as she was with snarls in his hair. He wishes she was here now, that she’d remained his friend. He could use some advice, or at least a small sympathetic hand on the shoulder and a cup of tea pushed into his hands. Hell, at this point he’d take Tasar’s advice, even as terrible as it was he’d at least listen to him before suggesting he go serenading a love ballad at her window.

_ He wishes they were all here, his pack, his little family, so he wouldn't have to navigate these murky waters alone but- _

-But he was alone. Alone, with no compass to find his way to rebuilding his pack until he’d found the one remaining member of it, but he didn't know when that would be-

- **_if,_ ** _ some little voice stresses, buried under a thousand layers of denial _ -

-But he can’t put his life or heart on hold until he’s got someone to hold his hand like he’s a helpless fledgling. Damn it, he’s not a blinkered horse needing to be led about because he’s too stupid, too  _ slow  _ to get things. He  _ will  _ go up those steps, he  _ will  _ give this beautiful woman a gift that she deserves and stop being so cowardly and prove he can do at least this one thing on his own. And if she turns him down he will nod, and then mist to a convenient grove of trees in a deserted area and scream and claw until his throat was raw and he’d felled them all.

(He won’t take it out on her for her choice of course; given the option, he wouldn’t choose him either.)

He sighs, and thinks  _ nothing for it,  _ and makes his way up the steps to knock. He pauses, confused, as the door makes a knocking noise before he can-

_ He blinks- _

_ Blinks- _

“Oh, so you  _ are  _ awake.” A soft voice murmurs. “I wasn't sure.”

He turns his head to stare, the movement slow and difficult, chased by pain. Some unfamiliar man is perched at the entryway, lowering his hand from where it had been tapping on the doorframe.

“The doctor hasn't come back yet, but he said that if you woke up to try feeding you some gruel.” He trotted in, a bowl in hand. “How do you feel?”

He doesnt...he doesn't know where or...why he’s here, but- “Pain. _ Hurts.”  _ He managed to rasp.

Basil looked down at the poor man and gave him a sympathetic smile. “I imagine so. Regis didn't specify what had happened to you, but you’ve been unconscious for the last few days.”

The man’s eyes widened a bit in recognition. “Regis...where…?”

“He’s out assisting the lord of the manor. Rest assured, he’ll be back. He’s hardly left your side these last few days.”

“Days…” Dettlaff mumbled, and Basil half-expected him to slip back into his torpor, but he pulled himself out of it. “How...how many- _ Rhena,  _ must-”

He struggles to rise, and Basil gently guides him back to the bed. He puts up more of a struggle than a man is his state should, but he’s able to get him to subside. “Sir, you must  _ rest.  _ You are in no condition to go rushing about, no matter how dire it is.”

Dettlaff panted, pain and exhaustion making him gasp, and Basil gave him a worried look. “Do you feel up to some porridge sir? You need to get your strength up.”

The vampire in question feels nauseous and more thirsty than anything, but he focuses on the thought of getting his health back to where it was through the debilitating haze. “...Okay. Water…?”

“Of course sir; can you sit up, or would you like some help?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed against nausea. “Help...please.”

Basil gently helps him to a slightly more elevated position, but even with him being as careful as he can his patient is wincing and in cold sweats by the time he’s raised enough to eat and drink. The majordomo has to help with both, the man’s hands too weak and shaky to even hold a spoon, despite trying his best. Basil has done this for his sister’s patients before though so he is used to the routine, ready with a cloth napkin for the inevitable spills.

“Sorry.” He mumbles, as Basil deftly wipes him down. 

“No need. More?”

“...Don’t think...feel sick.” He swallows again, and Basil can tell it’s a struggle to keep the cup of porridge down.

He gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “That’s alright sir, you took as much as you could.”

Dettlaff takes a deep breath, trying to focus on anything else other than the way the room is spinning. “Where…?”

“You are at Corvo Bianco, a wine estate, less than a day’s ride from Beuclair. Regis is friends with Geralt-the new owner of the estate-and he’s let you stay in his house whilst you recover with his other patients.”

It takes him a moment to work through that, the name of Geralt ringing a bell somewhere...Regis had a friend...named…“Geralt of...Rivia?”

“The very same! He’d just been given the estate as a reward by the duchess herself after dispatching ‘the beast of beauclair’ for her. Nasty business, that.”

_ That  _ took even longer to filter through. Dettlaff jerks to stare at the man when he realizes he’s recovering in the house of the man that  _ put him at the bottom of a lake- _

“Wh-why is he- _ what-?”  _ The movement sends a fresh wave of nausea and pain through him, and the porridge comes back up. He groans weakly as he feels the other man dabbing the mess away. 

“Try not to move quite so much sir,” Basil says gently. “Yes, the witcher is having you at his house because Regis asked him to assist with your recovery, simply that. I believe they are close friends, and he is aiding Regis in caring for you, as a friend-of-a-friend would do. No more, no less. Now, try to take in more porridge sir, and I can have Marlene give you some pain medication. It really shouldn't be taken on an empty stomach.”

He sighs, and after another few mouthfuls of water, he’s able to swallow some more thin gruel. Basil nods his approval and makes to stand. “Do you need anything else, sir?”

“Do you know...when Regis will be back?”

“Soon, I imagine. He and Sir Geralt are on some type of witcher business. He left you a note in case you woke, it should have all the details.” Basil handed him a sealed envelope. “He stressed that you read this in privacy.”

He took it, and Basil left him to it with a soothing pat to his shoulder. “Should you need anything sir, you’ve but to call for me. My name is Barnabas-Basil Foulty, but you may call me Basil if you like.”

“...Thank you.” He said quietly, feeling-even though the man was a near stranger-slightly reassured, despite the panic churning in his gut. 

Basil gave him a warm smile. “You are welcome sir, I do hope you recover soon.”

Dettlaff waited until the man left, and carefully picked open the letter, reading it slowly.

_ My dear friend, _ _  
  
_

_ I imagine that you are quite confused as to the circumstances you find yourself in. Don’t worry, however; you are in the best of hands. Geralt-the witcher I’ve mentioned from my travels-was moved by my explanation of your plight and out of gratitude for your assistance in my recovery. He fished you out of the lake and brought you to me after the events that led to you plunging into it. He is also, regrettably, the one that sent you plummeting into it as fortune-or misfortune-may have it. I beg that you bear him no ill-will, though that may be an impossibility, and understandably so,- _

Dettlaff squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to get a headache from Regis being as long-winded as he always was even in letter form. It was annoying and endearing most days, but right now it leaned heavily into the ‘annoying’ bit.

- _ but I implore you to at least not attack him on sight the next time you see him. He has managed to not only find out that your one-time lover is under threat, he has also undertaken her rescue. He has even enlisted the aid of the captain of the guard, and his daughter Ciri-yes,  _ **_that_ ** _ Ciri, the empress herself!-to stop this plot and aid in the safe recovery of Rhena. I know that you cannot help worrying about the outcome of our endeavors, but with all of their aid I cannot help but feel optimistic, and I hope that you will as well. Please, do focus on getting better; I hope that by the time you read this letter I and my friends will be on our way back to the estate with Rhena safely tucked under my wing (metaphorically speaking, of course.) In the meantime, I leave you in the care of the Corvo Bianco staff, Marlene and Barnabas-Basil. I shall return soon. _

_ Sincerely, Regis. _

_ PS: Marlene is in charge of dosing medication and cooking food for you; for all other needs please refer to Barnabas-Basil. _

_ PPS: To clarify, Barnabas-Basil is under strict instructions not to dole out medication, Marlene is in charge of that. Please only ask her to dose you. _

He blinked at that last bit, feeling a little confused by the specifics, but he was only just able to understand through the haze of pain what the overly-convoluted wording of the letter was  _ trying  _ to convey. Somehow or other, Regis’ friend had managed to deduce that he was being blackmailed, that Rhena was in danger, and had enlisted the help of some very powerful people to find her. Which would be reassuring...if the letters that the blackmailers sent to him hadn't specified  _ if you seek out help she will be killed on the spot- _

He hissed in pain as he tensed, spasms wracking him. They were so bad tears welled up in the corners of his eyes and he whimpered, shuddering his way through them. When they finally faded into background throbbing, he managed to moan out a ‘please’ and ‘Marlene?’ in a most pitiable way.

His upper half must have managed to slide off the bed somewhat because she does appear, though upside down, at the doorway. “You poor dear. Ready for the poppy?”

Honestly, at this point, he’d eat rancid drowner spit if it would help. He wishes he was as fast a healer as Regis was; the other vampire had regenerated astonishingly quickly for being melted into slag, and that-along with his near immunity to silver-was one of the perks gifted to the other vampire. All he had was his connection with the lower vampires, and even that wasn't without its drawbacks.

(Though how much of it was the connection and how much of it was him was...debatable.)

Marlene gently helps to lever him back onto the bed, and carefully drops some of the poppy milk under his tongue. The concoction was exceedingly bitter, but despite the nasty taste the smell of it is strangely comforting, reminding him of the little cottage in Dillgan with it’s simmering brews and neatly tended garden. He sighs shakily.

“It’ll take a minute, but that should help.” She says, tucking him in. Some little bit of him that’s not swimming in pain and nausea is very distantly befuddled by that, but he can’t think about it much before he sinks back into unconsciousness chased by Marlene’s  _ ‘rest up dearie’  _ reminding him, of all things, of his aunt. The last thought he has is the picture of Regis’ kind face and the faint hope that he can trust him to find Rhena in time.

* * *

He’s woken to the sound of yelling.

_ “Fuck off back to the accounting office that spawned you, you _ -”

The rest was lost in a cascade of what sounded like-cutlery? Whatever it was it was loud enough to drag him the rest of the way out of sleep. At least it didn't sound like a certain unstable vampire going on a rampage, he’s pretty sure Dettlaff didn't know what an accounting office  _ was _ .

He turns his head, groggy from the actual sleep he’d fallen into. It always took him a bit to come to if he slept rather than meditated, and the bed here was almost sinfully comfortable. He’d even managed to burrow into the mountains of fluffy comforters and pillows, and he has to swat away the layers. He half-expects Yen to huff amusedly at him, before his half-asleep brain caught up. Yen isn't here yet, and probably wouldn't be for another few days. The letter would take a while to reach her and she’d probably have to travel via barge if she truly did take his very understated, very subtle as possible  ~~ plea ~~ suggestion to heart and packed  _ all  _ their stuff to move to Corvo Bianco. It probably would be another week before he saw her. Well, if she decided to come. He’s holding out hope that she will, but he knows she’s fiercely independent. The idea of being a ‘kept’ woman would get her hackles up for sure. Still, he can’t help but hold out a faint hope he’d see a trail of dust heralding a loaded carriage making its slow way up the road. 

For now, though, he’ll bat those thoughts away along with the sheets, and tell whoever’s making the racket to shut it or-

He pops his head out to see BB stomping past him, his face red and looking...well, angry. Huh. He didn't know the man could  _ get  _ angry. “What’s going on BB?”

“That  _ man- _ if you can call him such-is the most... _ infuriating _ patient I’ve ever had the misfortune of tending! He refuses his porridge, and he called me a-a-a ‘wibbling cuntweasel!’ ”

Geralt blinked. Oh wow, that’s a variety of insult he hadn’t heard in a while; not since he was a squeaky youngster-or ‘lanky streak of piss’ as his instructors called him, ‘lanky’ for short-at Kaer Morhen before the massacre. They had been very fond of a variety of colorful insults to motivate them to train harder, a few of which he’d not heard outside of the school. Well, he had three guesses to which patient BB had been tending, and the first two didn't count.

“I’ll deal with him. How’s the other one doing?”

“As meek as a lamb; all he does is eat, take his medications, and sleep. He’s, ah, starting to smell a bit...ripe, though.” BB coughed. “Regis has his hands full and...well, could I take on a few hands to…?”

“Don’t feel like washing his ass for him?” Geralt said, amused.

His majordomo's face reddened. “Not...particularly sir.” 

Geralt chuckled. “Sure BB, go ahead. Regis will appreciate the help.”

BB scurries off, and Geralt watches him go, before facing the dragon-or griffin, as the case may be-in the adjoining room to Dettlaff. He takes a look at the other patient, just to see if the vampire is awake, but he’s out cold on the meds that Regis has been shoving down his throat. He looks almost peaceful, mouth hanging open slightly, drool starting to dribble from one corner. He doubts even the heavy sedation will keep him under for long if he doesn’t shut the other guy up though. He does  _ not  _ want to add the shock of discovering his best friend was alive and out of his skull to the mountain of issues the unstable bastard has already.

“Good morning.” He says, sidling in the room. 

“ ‘Less you're here to handle my mornin’ wood you can keep that ‘good morning’ shite to yourself, you pasty-ass pretty boy.” His patient snarled.

He arched an eyebrow but otherwise didn't react. It’s just like at Kaer Morhen, where the instructors would say the wildest insults they could think of to crack their composure and then punish them with pushups if they slipped up. “Only thing I’m handling is feeding you.”

“For the love of-right, creepy albino bloke; who the fuck are you and why are you trying to feed me incredibly shitty gruel that smells like seal cum? Fuck, my great-aunt Genevieve made better pottage, and she had one eye and a serious coriander fixation! You try feeding that cumwater they call gruel to me again, I’ll paint your ass as white as your hair.” Jerome hissed, a psychotic gleam in the golden eyes. 

“Like to see you try, wrapped up as you are.” He says, picking up a bowl from where BB had left it. It was smeared with as much gruel as was actually in the bowl, and so was the spoon. Jerome can see him coming and bares his teeth at it.

“I want  _ meat  _ you dog fucker! Thick ‘n juicy! Not that ‘creme de microdick’ you trying to feed me!”

“Too bad.”

“Fuck you!”

“Okay, that’s enough of that.” Geralt axii’d him.

Jerome smirks smugly at him. “Nice try, cumstain. Your mama should’a swallowed.”

Geralt glared at him. Just his luck that it didn't work; witchers were more resistant to it, but the man in front of him was, well, nuts. He should’ve been more susceptible. Oh well, more than one way to skin a cat-or pluck an eagle.

Jerome jerked as Geralt pinched his nose. He rested a loaded spoon of the gruel against his clenched lips.

“C’mon,” He drawled, “One spoonful for daddy.”

Oh, if looks could kill. Jerome held out for a remarkably long time before he opened his mouth for a gasp of air-and an insult-and Geralt shoved the spoon in. Then he deftly pressed the heel of his hand against the bastard’s chin to hold his mouth shut so he couldn't just spit it out.

“Good girls swallow.” Geralt said cheerfully to the man, plugging his nose again.

Finally- _ finally- _ he swallowed. Wash, rinse, repeat. It took damn near an hour-and a lot of expletives-but he got the gruel down. Geralt wiped down the mess he’d gotten on him after BB’s attempts, taking the insults to his person with a great deal of grace. Regis walks in the middle of him saying ‘what you know about Toussaint could fit in a godling’s pisshole with room to spare, wolf-fucker!’ with the bottle full of the medication.

“Aww, what fresh hell is this.” Jerome says when he sees him. “Is that cum? That better not be cum.”

“This, my colorful friend, is tincture of the poppy.” 

“Oooh, drugs. Well, the food is shite in this brothel but at least the molly’s good. Gimme a hit, you turnip-faced bastard.”

Geralt actually gives him the medication; he doesn't like the idea of Regis being within biting distance of this crazy fucker. Must be a strong batch because he only gets to call Geralt a ‘dollymop’ and mumble out some request for a lapdance before falling unconscious.

“Finally, some peace for a few hours.” Regis muttered. 

The doctor looked exhausted, and the day had barely started. Geralt frowned, concerned, and subtly managed to steer his friend out to the pavilion so he wouldn't find more work to do and flags down BB for breakfast. Well, lunch; he’d slept in because of the late night yesterday. He and Damien had been out running all over Toussaint trying to chase down clues; anything and everything to find this bitch, but nothing doing. She’d gone to ground, and the other two Hansa bases had evacuated practically overnight too. All efforts to find her or her men had gotten them nothing. Just like the day before yesterday. And the day before that…

Geralt sighed. “Heard you went to check in on the Duchess yesterday. How is she doing?”

“Physically, she’s doing better, but...” He paused, looking pained. “I believe she’s in shock from the news of who’s behind it.”

When Regis had visited her, he’d started with the good news. Anna had been greatly relieved that Benoit’s grandson had been recovered, which he’d been surprised at. Most rulers he’d heard of or met had always left the impression of selfishness and being largely unconcerned for the lives of lessers save for when it served them to do so. The duchess, on the other hand, had looked overjoyed at the news rather than distantly pleased. 

“Oh, I am so glad you were able to save little Ander.” She said, returning to peeling an orange. She and Cirilla were sharing a midday meal now that she was well enough to do so, though she was still on a bland diet and prone to spells of weakness. Her voice, too, was a rough rasp-probably would always be; some damage was bound to be permanent. “Really, he’s all Benoit has left of his family.”

“Plague?” Ciri asked around an orange slice.

“Murder.” She sighed. “Ander’s father had accrued debts with some very unsavory people. My Captain put the perpetrators on the gallows but...well. Cold comfort that. I took Boniot on as my wine taster after Damien mentioned his unusual ability to accurately describe the smell of the killers.”

Ciri grimaced. “Guess even Toussiant isn’t immune to things like that. Geralt's always said your only problem was finding enough caves for wine, but…”

“As the saying goes, ‘things are rough all over’. Though I suspect we’ve little right to complain, compared to our northern neighbors at least.”

“Tell me about it. Novigrad’s university  _ just  _ reopened last year.” Ciri shook her head ruefully. “But anyway, you were able to track the kidnappers?”

“Indeed. We were led to the Dun Tynne estate, under the ownership of Roderick. He had, apparently, been duped into sheltering these men and their leader. He’s currently in custody with all the other men that Geralt and Damien managed to capture.”

“And this shadowy maestro that has it in for Dettlaff and myself? Is he rotting in a cell with them?”

“Ah...no. They managed to escape and the perpetrator is…” He shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “...Rather less shadowy than we’ve been led to believe. And far more familiar to you than we would have liked.”

Her grace pauses at that, looking wary. “...Care to elaborate?”

He sighed and took in a breath. “The perpetrator was...Sylvia Anna, your sister.”

* * *

*None that you’re  _ aware  _ of at least...


	18. No light, no light

* * *

Anna drops the orange. It rolls away, unheeded, and both he and the empress watch her pale face with deepening concern. Ciri takes her hand gently. “Anna?”

It takes her a minute to respond. When she does, it’s breathy and very strangled sounding. “Are...are you certain.”

“Roderick confirmed her identity. Apparently, he’d had something of a soft spot for her, which led to him letting her and her lackeys stay with him at his estate.”

Anna doesn't say anything to that, her grip on Ciri’s hand tightening to a painful degree. Ciri does her best to maintain the grip and ignore the pain, stroking her hand across the duchesses knuckles in a soothing manner.

“No.” She says in a small voice. “It cannot be. I...we used to play together until she was...sent away. I...she _can’t_ have wanted to actually...”

She trails off, and Regis is at a loss. It’s an understandable shock to find out your beloved, long-lost sister has reappeared solely because she wanted to kill you and take your throne, and there's really...nothing good to say to that, none that he can think of at least. Ciri, however, is able to find the words.

“People change over the years,” She said gently, “...and not necessarily for the better.”

“But my own _sister.”_ She choked out and then brought her hand up to her mouth. “I...excuse me.”

She stood, and managed to dip a bow to Ciri. “May I-”

“Of course Anna.” Ciri stood as well. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

Regis is left to awkwardly twiddle his thumbs, waiting on Ciri to take him back. Telling the duchess had gone about...well, as good as could be expected. Maybe he has Ciri’s presence to thank for the reaction being less explosive, but he’s not so sure. Perhaps it would have been if she’d learned of her sister’s involvement _before_ the poisoning, but she’s just recently had a rather close brush with death. To learn the source of such a terrifying experience was her beloved sister that she’d been trying to find all these years...to say it’s a shock is seriously understating it. 

Ciri eventually returns, looking grave. She remains standing, hands gripping the back of the chair. 

“Is she, ah…” He falters, not really sure what to even say.

“In shock. Hasn't really sunk in yet.” She sighed. “Can’t help but have some sympathy for her; I’ve had my own experiences with... _difficult_ family members.”

He has a feeling that he knows, specifically, which one. Emhyr had not been the best of fathers, and she has a great deal more fortitude than he would if he’d found out that his own father wanted to...well, he’s not sure he’d have the restraint not to throw the previous emperor into the sun through one of her portals if he’d been in her shoes. 

Ciri sighed, shaking her head, and moved on. “Any word on where Sylvia is? We can’t keep Anna here forever; much as I’d like to make sure she’s kept out of harm's way, she can't very well look after Toussiant from here. Besides, she _wants_ to go home; she’s been driving herself up the wall worrying about keeping the damn merchants from being their usual money-grubbing selfish selves.”

“I wish we did, but unfortunately no. It’s like her whole organization just vanished.” Regis sighed too. “Geralt and Damien are still working on finding her, but we really have no other means to find her.” 

Ciri rubbed her temples in exasperation. “Damn it. And your friend, Dettlaff? How’s he?”

“Unconscious, most of the time. I’ve been keeping him sedated but...your majesty-”

“Ciri. I get enough of the bowing and scraping from everyone else without you starting.”

Regis smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Sorry; gotten into the habit after everyone else calling you such lofty titles-although I must say ‘the lady of space and time’ has quite a nice ring to it.”

She chuckled at that and waved him on.

“Well, as I said he’s been kept under with some of my stronger supplies, but to be honest the situation is untenable. Our kind builds tolerances quite quickly, and even we might develop a taste for opium given the right circumstances. I’ve been closely monitoring it, but I can’t keep him on it for much longer.”

Ciri blew an errant hair out of her face. “Fuck, that’s the last thing we need; a higher vampire with a poppy habit. Imagine it’s slightly better than blood, but still.”

“Indeed. I was hoping, given that you are able to open portals whenever and wherever you like, it may be best to tell him when you are present. I’m hoping that we might not need to, but there is a device in which he can be safely restrained to keep him from injuring himself. While the ward keeps the people around him safe, he’s still healing. The stress of the news might, ah-”

“Make him hurt himself?” She arched an eyebrow. “I mean, I know he’ll just heal but...you vampires also…”

“It’s not...out of the realm of possibility. We may be physically very different from you humans but mentally...well, the fact that we are able to have a conversation concerning it and actually understand each other quite easily demonstrates that we are far more compatible mentally than a giant carnivorous bat and small ape-like creatures have any right to be.”

“ ‘Giant’? Bit egotistical; you weren't more than a head taller than me, come on.” 

Regis chuckled. “Well, compared to the _native_ bats, perhaps. But, my point; we’re able to understand and empathize with one another with no more difficulty than with another of our own kind from a differing cultural background. The concept of harming oneself out of grief or rage is perhaps handled slightly differently amongst our respective species, but it’s still a concept we can both understand.”

At the end of it, Ciri was giving him a bemused look. “Geralt was right.”

“About…?”

“You _are_ long-winded.”

“To his monosyllabic self, perhaps.” He huffed, amused, then sobered. “I and your foster father will be going to Teshna Mutnam. It was a prison for one of our kind once; a particularly nasty fellow named Kagmar. Even among our kind, he was considered egregiously blood-addicted, imbibing entire villages in a night. He was held there for a time in a specially-made cage that makes us unable to mist and restricts transformation. Although I hope it won’t be needed, we could use this to restrain him for his safety and that of others.”

“Well, that’s one issue solved at least.” She said, relieved. 

She’d been worried because no mage had ever tried to restrain a true higher vampire; maybe a katakan or a bruxa, sure, but not one of Regis’ kind. She’d even had Fringilla look over the other mage's work and add an extra barrier just to be safe. Fringilla had asked if she was that worried she should just skip it and throw him into the sun, but it seemed massively unfair to just go the easy route and incinerate him because he was an unstable demigod if they had the option of at least _trying_ to keep him contained so Regis could hopefully help him heal from the mental and physical trauma. Being an unstable demigod herself that had nearly killed everyone around her in a screaming rage after Vesimer died when she’d lost control of her powers she couldn't help but have some sympathy for the poor bastard. Besides, chucking a bed-bound invalid into the sun just because he had the bad luck of sticking his dick in the wrong woman was a _bit_ overkill, even if he was potentially dangerous. 

She shook herself out of her thoughts and picked up a ring that she’d had enchanted earlier. “Here, this is keyed to me. You can tap the stone three times to speak with me; give it to Geralt and have him keep me updated will you?” 

“Of course my dear.” He said, taking it and her hand. He touched it to his lips with a comical amount of formality.

She snorted and shook him off. “Flatterer. C’mon, let's get you back to Corvo Bianco.”

They’d hopped the distance in a blink; just a small matter of a thousand miles. Ciri didn't even feel tired from it like she used to. Ever since dealing with the white frost, her skills had multiplied beyond what even Avallach had predicted, and she made sure to squeeze in some practice to expand them further between negotiations and balls. At least fencing practice was easier to get time slots for; Morvran was easy to wheedle into being her sparring partner, determined to finally win a round for once. He hadn’t managed yet, but hope springs eternal. It was cute that he still tried though.

Regis chatted with her a bit before she’d departed, then he went to his workroom. Two days ago Basil had discovered the alchemist lab in the basement, and Regis had commandeered it as his own. He spent much of his time here when he wasn't tending to his patients mixing up concoctions that would be familiar to any barber-surgeon, as word had gotten around the estate that he was a doctor and he’d been making small amounts of coin making cough syrup and the like. It was soothing, a break from the stress of taking care of his two patients. One, he was honestly scared to get too close to lest he get bitten again, and the other...well. He’d been _trying_ to think of what to tell him once he was well enough in the harsh light of day without breaking into cold sweats and hadn’t come up with anything yet. 

When he wasn't making mint oil to soothe a pregnant woman’s nausea spells or other such things, he was making bottles of poppy tincture, which involved boiling down the poppy milk until it was a thick, tarry substance, then mixing that with strong vodka. The fact that he was having to make-and use-so much of this much stronger sedative made him anxious, especially as his supply of poppy was starting to run low. He would often end up having to make a batch _every day,_ and that was deeply worrying. 

Tincture brewed, he was just in time to dose his patients and rescue Geralt-and everyone else-from the verbal abuse being hurled at them from his first patient. Now they both sit and relax on the patio, the first breather they’d both had in three days. They’d both been run ragged; Geralt with chasing leads, Regis with round-the-clock care, and it’s good to just eat without hurrying, without worries. Well, _fewer_ worries.

Naturally, it couldn't last.

“Geralt?”

“Mmm?” The witcher in question had his eyes closed, enjoying the sun.

“I hate to impose, but I require some assistance.”

He sighed but didn’t object. “What do you need Regis?”

“Ah, there’s an item I need to recover from a rather...unsavory place too dangerous for your staff. I would go myself, but horses only just tolerate me at the best of times, and I need a cart.”

Another sigh, and he rose. “Alright, I’ll hook up Roach. What are we getting?”

Regis followed him in, elaborating on his idea and what it involved while Geralt donned his armor. The witcher mused over the tale of Kagmar and couldn't help but wonder.

“What happened to him?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The vampire in the cage? Obviously, he’s not still in it if we’re going to be taking it.”

“It’s actually unknown what happened to him. The, ah, practice of punishing him was...well, they kept humans in cages next to him, which they slowly bled to torture him-”

Geralt blinked. “...Didn't you say they kept him there for two hundred years?”

“Indeed I did.”

“...And humans were _still_ being killed.” The witcher gave him a questioning look. “Wasn't...the whole point of capturing him to prevent that, to appease the ones that hunted your kind?”

“Yes, it was.”

He paused. “I’m... _questioning_ the logic here.”

“Well, it was a much smaller rate of attrition for your species than when he was roaming free. Kagmar would imbibe entire villages in a night. Also, it was less about preventing human deaths, and about making an example meant to discourage other members of my kind from exhibiting such egregiously hedonistic behaviour.” Regis shook his head, his face pinched with pain. “I did not say it was a perfect solution, only that it was one. Obviously, _I_ would have just imprisoned him and left him there with no horrifying bait of any sort, but I can only feel shame for my brethren, not turn back the hands of time and prevent their various atrocities.”

“Don’t take it so hard. Nothing you could have done.” Kitted out, he went back through the front door to the stables. “Anyway, you were saying?”

“Well, the practice of punishing Kagmar was, as you put it, _still_ killing humans, so eventually Teshna Mutna was attacked. Accounts vary wildly, but general consensus is that the, ah... _offerings_ were infiltrated. The attack came from within. The fortress was lit on fire; it is believed that Kagmar was annihilated like I was by Vilgefortz. However, even being ashed may still result in regeneration, even if it takes centuries, but yet no one has seen nor heard of Kagmar resuming his imbibing.”

“Maybe he had a sobering up like you did when you were chopped up, and then went into hiding so he wouldn't be put back into the damn cage.”

“Perhaps the most common theory, though there’s the lingering worry that what happened to Kagmar may have been rather something even _less_ pleasant, and rather more permanent. What happened at Tesham Mutna is still something of a mystery, one that prompted our species retreat into our current state of masquerade, fading into obscurity to avoid attention, eschewing the brazen presence of our past days. To pardon the expression, it was the final nail in the coffin for our days in the proverbial sun.”

Geralt made a face at his choice of phrase, finishing strapping Roach to the wagon. She huffed and stamped her feet, annoyed at being forced to tow the cart again, and Geralt gives her an apologetic pat. He sometimes wishes he had the Nilfgaardian stallion Emhyr gave him-that horse had been better with carts-but he’d left him with Yen, since the handsome black fellow suited her so well. They set off at a leisurely pace, a few hours respite from the responsibilities weighing them both down, and Geralt can’t help but notice his vampire friend looks lighter, happier, when they’ve left the estate. Maybe he would have preferred to laze around under a shade tree somewhere, but it’s tempered by seeing Regis having more of a spring in his step, taking in his surroundings with new appreciation now that they had the time to do so. He even stops now and again to pluck an herb or two, adding them to the cart. With the sun and light breeze, they’d probably be dry by the time they got back.

“I am curious,” Regis said, tossing some hellebore in, “About your experience when under the influence of the ah, _altered_ resonance. I tried to research it, but most everything involving alterations led to ‘dying horribly’.”

“Witcher. More difficult to kill.”

“I suppose; and perhaps your physiology can alter how you would react. But I rather doubt it would lead to such an effect as I witnessed.” He paused, his expression strained. “I neglected to mention that I could not wake you, even after you imbibed the antidote. Perhaps the most distressing was, in the end, you had to be pulled out via magic as something-whatever it was-tried to drag you in.”

_He must be fed, the beast, the winter man-_

Geralt shudders, and Regis gives him a worried look. The witcher is silent for a moment. 

“...I understand that you want to know what it was, but...it’s personal. To Dettlaff. If he hasn't told you what’s wrong with him himself, doubt he’d appreciate you finding out via me.” He said quietly. “But I’ll tell you this much: whatever causes his nightmares and his moments, it’s...powerful, and hungry, eating away at him. And it was trying to consume me too.”

They’re silent for a long time, and Geralt is saddened to notice Regis looks haunted, his head hanging with worry. Damn it all, this was supposed to be a quick little break, a chance to get away from the worries, however briefly. 

“Try not to think about it, Regis,” He said gently. “Can’t do nothing but worry about it now; and that won’t do you any good. Try to remember you’ll be there to help him with it when he wakes, and I’ll be around to lend a hand.”

Regis gives him a surprised look. “You would do that?”

“ ‘Course I will. I was in his head, so I know what he went through. Well, at least some of it; so I can point you in the right direction. Also, I can’t help but have empathy for him, feeling what he did.” Geralt met his eyes. “And he brought you back. Least I can do to repay him for that small miracle.”

The corner of Regis’ eyes crinkled in a soft, fond smile. “I’m glad to hear you pledge your assistance, my friend. Knowing that you will do your best to help is immensely reassuring.”

“Yeah, well, you did your best to hammer home that being a lone wolf isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Guess some of the lessons stuck.”

Regis chuckled and Geralt is pleased to see that, while that pensive look isn't _entirely_ gone, it seems to be largely overshadowed by hope. He’s never been good with words, and he’s deeply relieved he’d managed to pick the right ones this time around. Mood lightened he’s able to move on to other things.

“I can tell you a little bit about the resonance’s effect though if you want.”

“Oh? Please do, I’m burning with curiosity.”

Geralt does his best to describe it without giving away too many personal details about Dettlaff; he doesn't want to sour Regis’ friendship with Dettlaff by giving the doctor more information than the other vampire would have consented to divulge. However, he _is_ able to describe the way the potion had turned the vampire’s pre-conscious into a dreamscape that Geralt could explore and interact with like a powerful illusion. Regis is understandably _fascinated,_ murmuring things about how this would provide new insight and breakthroughs in the fledgling field of study of the mind, and just how much of the data regarding vampiric consciousness could apply to a human, elf, and so on-

“-Though our mental processes are not _entirely_ dissimilar, I expect,” Regis mused. “But perhaps, with further studies, we could begin to build a repository of experiences that can be used to catalog similarities and-”

Geralt smiles to himself, amused. Apparently what Regis really needed was a distraction, because babbling about the theoretical applications resonance might have made him completely forget his worries for a brief moment. 

“And this...not-Regis, or Emiel as you called him, was nearly identical to me, but yet fundamentally different?”

“Yeah, he was-” He pulls himself up short upon realizing he’d _almost_ gone into a blistering tirade about how just damn _infuriating_ Emiel had been. Regis would have been deeply hurt by it, and he winces, trying to think of a way that doesn’t point out, in the worst way, just how...well, patronizing and condescending Dettlaff felt Regis was to him. He can’t just dance around the issue though; Regis is going to be the person closest to Dettlaff, the one in the best position to help the other vampire with his issues. If Geralt can help iron out some points of contention that might hinder the doctor’s efforts, he has to try. 

“Regis, remember when you said…‘don’t worry, I’m working on him’?”

“I do, yes.”

“So what is he to you; a friend?” Geralt paused, “Or a _project?”_

Regis was silent for a long, long time.

“...Oh.” His voice is very quiet. “I think...I think I begin to see the shape of what you mean.”

They’re both silent for a while, Geralt giving Regis the space needed to think.

“I admit that at times I...treated him as more like a patient that I was trying to cure, than that of a friend lending a hand.” The doctor said ruefully. “Perhaps I should be less heavy-handed with my guidance.”

Remembering the overtly patronizing way the dreamscape version of Regis had behaved, it was all Geralt could do not to throw up his hands in relief. He restrains himself to a nod instead, and they kept trundling their way along. 

* * *

“Sir, are we making a stop at Geralt’s place?” Janne asked.

Damien sighed. “May as well. It’s on the way.”

Behind him, he heard his men give a few sighs of relief. Their last lead-the cintrian-had turned up dead after a fatal fall from a window attempting to steal a jewel. They’d tried hunting down the body for clues, but it had already been removed with nothing more than a bloodstain in the dirt showing where he’d fallen. He’d sent some to find the thief in a morgue, while the rest of them went hunting drug runners in hopes that Syanna’s group had connections they could exploit, but no luck. They were tired, sweaty, and covered in stickerburrs from chasing bandits in the woods. They were on their way back to the capitol, but Geralt had extended his invitation to the captain and his men to stop by anytime that they liked to convey news. Perhaps they might have little news to convey, but the chance of a respite was too good to pass up and his men deserved it for clocking in so much overtime.

Barnabas-Basil greeted them at the gate. “Good sirs, what can I do for you?”

Damien dismounted. “Is Geralt home?”

“No, I’m afraid he and his doctor friend stepped out to pick up a, ah…” Basil paused, trying to state this in whatever way that he could that wouldn't sound too..bizarre. “What he called a ‘bat cage’, whatever that is.”

Damien blinked, and had to struggle not to sigh. He can grant that being closed-lipped around the servants is a good thing, but the ways Geralt has thought of to subtly get around that are rather...creative. Or baffling, depending. Thankfully he had an idea of what the man was doing so he isn't too lost, and instead settles in to allow a brief rest for himself and his men. The estate is well stocked with wine, and Geralt’s new cook is happy to test her culinary experiments on new people. They’re fed a leek and pork stuffed pastry, followed by what she called ‘spiced quince butter cake’, though it might have been ‘slice of heaven’ for how divine it was. He manages to beg an extra slice from her to take home to his wife because such goodness _must_ be shared, and waits at the kitchen window for her to fold a napkin over the slice. She adds some petit fours in the basket too; three in fact, one for his wife, one for him, and one for him to eat on the way home and tell not a soul about so he can have it to himself.

(He must admit her senses are spot on because that’s _exactly_ what’s going to happen.)

He’s so focused on the package that she’s making for him he almost misses the shadow pass by the kitchen doorway behind her.

He blinks, something about the brief silhouette pulling him up to look, but by the time he’s looking the person has been and gone. There's a strange sense he’s missed something, that there was something different, that the form briefly seen was noteworthy. He pauses, confused, mulling over what was tickling his senses, falling almost instinctively into the state he entered when drawing a scene in front of him, picking up the relevant details.

_Short, bald, wiry, but not Basil-not him, not-what was different, what stood out-scar._

_Scar._

_...He had a scar over his eye-_

_HE HAD-_

Marlene jumps as the captain whips out his sword and scrambles around to the front door. “Men! Men! Surround the main building, now!”

He barges in, _might be too late, too late-he can only be after one person, the primary witness-_

But he’s not too late, he's just in time, just in time to see the vial, poised, full of what he knows to be poison. He’s lucky enough that he’s able to throw a dagger, and he’s a shit marksman but the handle managed to hit the assassin's arm, making him drop it. It shatters and the man turns on him with a snarl.

“Fucking copper-” Those slit yellow eyes glare at him. “I’m gonna gut you for that, do you know how hard it is to make this shit?”

“Step away from him.” Damien comes closer, doing his best to block off escape routes for the cat witcher. 

It’s Gaetan, he’s sure of it. Syanna must have sent him to kill Dettlaff, to tie off the one loose end, the person that posed the most threat to her should he recover and go after her. The vampire in question is blinking out of his drugged stupor to look up at the intruder, confusion on his features. He hopes he’ll stay down, he wants fewer elements to deal with when trying to capture the cat witcher. He’s the key to finding the damned treasonous bitch, and he needs him alive. 

“The house is surrounded. If you surrender and answer our questions, I’m sure you’ll find our prisons far more agreeable than the death penalty most countries have in store for you.” 

If anything Gaetan seems... _amused_ by the offer. He draws his sword from where it had been hidden under the cloak he’d been wearing. “ ‘Fraid you’ve got me confused with some normal cutpurse man; you’re just little paper people compared to me. What makes you think you’ll be able to stop me from walking out after slaughtering you and all your men, huh?”

Damien is determined not to be shaken. “It will take more than mere threats to make me back down, you murdering bastard.”

Gaetan shrugged; he’s not going to play the victim card with this fool like he’d tried with Geralt. At that time he’d been stuck with a pitchfork and too wounded to take on another witcher; trying to paint his slaughter of the villagers as a momentary lapse of sanity rather than a mass-murder spree calculated to discourage future bounty-collecting. But now the tables are turned in _his_ favor, and this poor dumb bastard didn’t even know it. Gaetan rolled his once-ruined shoulder which was as good as new after a little over a week, hefted his sword, and blasted Damien with an aard sign. Damien was sent crashing onto the dining-room table and it broke under him, spilling crockery and candlesticks everywhere. He’s only just able to avoid a sword to the gut by rolling, and he manages to get to his feet. Now he’s the one with his back to the room with the recovering vampire in it, and Gaetan again flicks a sign at him. This time Damien is ready and rolls out of the way of a blast of flame, but the man is _fast,_ terrifyingly so, and he’s afraid that he might actually-

“Captain!”

The door is open, and wonders of wonders Gertrude is standing in it. She’s got a crackling ball of energy between her fingers and launches it at the cat witcher. He yowls in pain and is flung against the far wall, hitting it with a loud bang and falling to the floor. She spins up another ball, but before she can cast it he scrambles to his feet and shoots out the back door. Damien gets to his feet to pursue and is horrified to see that his guardsmen are just like the cat witcher had said; paper people, and he’d torn right through them. Francis is screaming in pain and terror at the bleeding stump where his arm had been, and his brother is desperately trying to keep pressure on it to stop him from bleeding out. He whips around and screams for Gertrude because nothing in his usual kit he keeps in his saddlebags is able to handle this, and she’s no healer but it’s better than nothing. He is gratified to hear the sound of at least five pairs of hoofbeats, so he knows some of his guards have seen the fleeing figure and are in pursuit so he can focus on helping to put pressure on the wound. Getrude comes out and places her hands on it as well, her magic able to stem the bleeding, though it does little else. They’d need a mage like Fringilla to do anything miraculous, like re-attaching the arm, and by the time they can get to her it will be too late. He sighs shakily, and can only hope that his men will be able to overwhelm and capture the witcher.

* * *

They’ve almost reached the estate when they hear the clattering of hooves and yelling. Regis and Geralt share a look of confusion, which lasts just until the foremost rider crests the hill. Both witcher’s eyes widen when they catch sight of each other.

“YOU!” They scream simultaneously.

Gaetan tries to jerk his horse off the path to cut through the woods away from Geralt and the pursuing guards. The wolf witcher snarls and forms a sign-axii-not on the other witcher, but his _horse._ Stunned, the animal stumbles and going the speed that it is, it sends them both ass over teakettle. To Geralt’s annoyance, the other witcher is able to land on his feet like his school’s totem, and he pops up with a snarl for the wolf witcher bearing down on him. The guards, too, encircle him, cutting off his escape routes but Geralt waves them off.

“I’ll take him. We need him alive.” He says, circling.

“Oh, don’t be sure about that,” Gaetan said, grinning viciously. “All healed up this time; no taking advantage of a fucking pitchfork wound.”

“Or you streaking around the lab.” Geralt shot back. “Still have nightmares of you in your smallclothes.”

Gaetan scowled at him and lunged. He was damned fast, even faster than the last time they’d met, and Geralt’s taken by surprise. He’s only just able to block him, and then the fight gets _deadly,_ far more deadly than it has any right to be. Gaetan’s signs are still normal-which is, to say, slightly less powerful than his own-but everything else, from the speed to the sheer strength, is far more ramped up than it should be. Gaetan’s grinning dementedly, watching him outside of the protective bubble he’s put up to get a breather. The guards are watching him nervously too, looking concerned, as they can sense that Geralt’s having one hell of a time. 

_This doesn't make sense._ Geralt thinks rapidly. _That crossbow bolt got him right in the rotator cuff, his arm should be in a permanent sling unless he got the help of one of the very few mages who can heal that kind of damage. I can count the number of people capable of that on one hand; no way he has access to that caliber of mage._

Gaetan keeps circling, and there's something...off about him. Geralt frowns, and it's only when the light is _just_ right-the sun behind Gaetan, his shield finally falling-that he sees it.

_It’s like he can only just see the new sharper bones under the thin veneer of normal flesh, and then...a subtle flash of silver in the eyes-_

_I’ve seen that before._ He thinks, horror slamming into his gut, chased by a steel sword, and he can’t dodge, can’t dodge in time-

But there _is_ someone who can, and it takes a minute to register that there's a familiar body between him at the cat witcher, impaled on the sword. Regis snarls and grabs Gaetan, preventing him from jumping away, and the witcher is so stunned by an elderly barber-surgeon just jumping in front of him he can’t react fast enough to a well-aimed punch to the face. 

It’s lights out for the cat witcher, and the last thought he has before he sinks into darkness was: _‘of all the things that could beat me, and I was defeated by a fucking tax-collector.’_

* * *

When he wakes, it’s slow; still stuck in a morass of aches and lingering dream state.

When he _really_ comes to, he’s not sure if he’s still stuck in a dream-or a nightmare-because he’s surrounded by fire. 

“Fire.” He muses. Blinks. “...Fire. F-FIRE!”

Panic slams into his body and he tries to writhe away but his bed is already shoved up against a wall. It’s not yet a true conflagration, but it’s enough to remind him of the last two times he’d been surrounded by fire, neither of them pleasant. He yells, hoarsely, too terrified and weak to try to leap the flames between him and the doorway to get out. Thankfully he’s heard, and a few familiar figures rush to the doorway with wet towels and buckets of water. Basil and Marlene pour water or smother the flames so they can get to him, and the majordomo puts his arm over his shoulders and helps to walk him out. He’s stopped at the threshold by _something_ -it feels like a weight squeezing his whole body-but with a grunt of effort Basil is able to tug him through. He’s taken all the way out of the building to be sat on a bench out of the way of more staff hurrying through with more damp towels and buckets of water or sand. He coughs uncontrollably, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes until Marlene comes back out with a hot cup of tea. 

He swigs it down-despite her warnings and the strongly minty, acidic flavor-and it helps immensely. It not only soothes his throat, it feels like the last of the lingering cotton is clearing from his head. It’s accompanied by an increase in pain-must have been the painkiller finally fading away-but the pain, while unpleasant, is more of a throbbing ache rather than the sharp unrelenting point of a knife stabbing his nerves. He feels like one big bruise, and groans. Marlene pats his shoulder in a sympathetic gesture.

“Sorry dear, but your poppy tincture is in the room. I’ll get it in a minute, once they clear out the smoke.” 

“Thank you.” He says quietly, feeling silly for making the comparison but he can’t help but associate this matronly woman with his aunt, who’d been mother to him in all ways but name. “For all the care you’ve shown me these last few…”

He paused, not sure. How long _had_ he been out? It felt like he’d been drifting through an endless cycle of sleeping, and then brief surfacing to a debilitating haze of drugs, only able to numbly eat and take yet more medicine. The clearest memory he had was of reading Regis’ letter, and then after…

He frowns. Something seems off. “Marlene, how many days have I been unconscious?”

“I’m not sure dear; I was brought here after you. You could ask Barnabas-Basil, he would know.”

He sips another cup-slower this time-and he’s about finished with it by the time the majordomo shows up. Basil gives him a once over, looking for injuries, and gives a little sigh of relief when the only thing the fire has left with him with is stinking of smoke.

“How are you doing sir? How’s the pain.”

“Tolerable.” He shifts, and winces. “...if only just.”

Basil gives him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, but the bottle with the tincture was broken in the rush. Your doctor friend should be returning shortly, he’ll be able to dose you with something stronger. For now, willow bark tea will just have to do.”

Now that he mentioned it, Dettlaff can recognize the smell, if not the taste. It was a common ingredient that had many uses in Regis’ various balms and extracts, and the acrid smell of it was familiar. He’s not sure how much good it’ll do a vampire like him but it can’t hurt, and it doesn't fog his mind like the stronger stuff. He swallows another sip and tries to keep calm.

“Basil-” He takes a breath. “You remember that Regis left me a letter, correct?”

“I do sir.”

“How...long has it been since I read it?”

“Oh, about three days sir.”

His heart starts tripping away in his chest. “And...there have been no updates?”

“None that I’m aware of; but it’s all been very mysterious. All these comings and goings and hushed meetings-I’ve no idea what it’s about. I mean, I can only assume it’s official business as the captain of the guard is involved.”

_No news, no word, and it’s been three days-_ his heart is pounding away painfully in his chest. _Is_ _that why he’s been keeping me under, because he can’t tell me, is it because she’s...she’s…_

The cup shatters and he hisses, not because the water is hot, but because he can feel his claws and teeth struggling to get out. He folds his hands into fists and presses them against his belly. Distantly he can hear Marlene and Basil’s worried voices, but it's all he can do to keep himself under control. He manages to stand and stagger to a shaded corner, shaking his head at their attempts to ascertain what was wrong, his back to them, curled in on himself. He eventually has to snap at them to leave him be, and the two exchange worried looks but do eventually leave, going back to his room to clean it up so he can be put back to bed.

_Back to bed, where I can be drugged into stupidity, so I’ll be out of the way, so I won’t be asking questions-_ He’s aware he’s hyperventilating, and there's some tinny voice somewhere saying that maybe he’s been drugged so he can heal but- _Where is she, what is he not telling, is she...is she…_

He slides down the wall, gasping, trying to calm down, and it’s only once he’s gotten a few breaths in that he can hear it: voices. Regis’ voice, actually, and it’s coming from behind the building. He crawls over, shuffling his way to the corner, and he can see a little group lurking under an awning. Regis is with them, one of them in the gear of a Toussiant guard-though this one is in a slightly different uniform, he can only assume it’s the captain Basil mentioned-and a white-haired man with the characteristic slit yellow eyes and twin swords of the witcher trade. That must be Geralt. Funny, he always imagined him as a carbon copy of Jerome, only wearing a wolf pelt, even though he logically knew that was ridiculous. Other than the most superficial of resemblances they looked nothing alike. 

“Damien, your men-” Regis is nervous, he can tell from the way he’s clutching the strap of his bag.

“Won’t breathe a word if they know what’s best,” Damien growled. “It’s not just you, they’ve been sworn to secrecy about this whole thing.”

Regis sighed in relief. “I’m sorry, I _had_ to-”

Damien gives him an incredulous look. “-Save Geralt from certain death? No one would blame you for that.”

Geralt gives Regis a lightly teasing look. “Oh, I don’t know, I’d blame his habit of self-sacrifice for a lot of things.” He grew serious. “Thanks, Regis. Appreciate not being made into a kebab.”

“Anytime Geralt.”

“Now that we’ve addressed that,” Damien knelt down, “Let’s address our new friend here.”

It’s then the Dettlaff noticed the cage. The _occupied_ cage, in fact. The person inside is slight, male, and dressed like a mercenary. He’s also unconscious, which seems a bit overkill for a man that’s already restrained. 

“It’s unnerving,” Regis mused, his voice concerned, “That the bruise is already gone.”

“Not if you consider what he did.” Geralt muttered. “This is the guy that was exploring Morue’s lab-where he was doing all those damned experiments. I caught him stepping out of the iron maiden; safe to say he used it.”

_Morue’s-the experiments-no, can’t be the lab I-no..._ he’s hyperventilating again, and he’s only snapped out of it by the spectacle of the caged man snarling and thrashing his way to consciousness. Even though he’s at least ten feet away, he can’t help but flinch back, and neither can the others. For a brief moment, the caged man’s face _splits,_ and it reminds him of a pike’s face, the maw full of needle teeth, eyeless face slamming against the bars.

Once he settles, the face returns to normal, and so does his heart rate, though he can see Regis is pale and clutching at the strap of his bag so tightly it might have permanent grooves. 

“Well,” His friend says lightly, though his voice tremors a bit, “I believe you are correct Geralt.”

“Fucking-let me out of this damn cage,” Snarls the captive, who, much to Detlaff’s surprise, is a witcher. 

“Ask nicely, and maybe I will.” Geralt drawls.

“Fuck you.”

“Enough of the niceties,” Damien snapped, leaning down, “Where is the rest of your little organization hiding at?”

Dettlaff felt his heart leap into this throat. That man, he knew-he knew where Rhena was! He scrambled to his feet and staggered over, Regis turning to stare at him, open-mouthed. “Dettlaff, what-how are you-”

“Sobered up, Regis. Bottle broke, so no drugs to give to keep me quiet.” He growled accusingly, and his friend looked hurt.

“I wasn’t- You needed to _heal-”_

Dettlaff ignored him to kneel and grab the cage. “Where is she?! _Where is Rhena?”_

“Who the fuck is-”

He’s losing control and he doesn't care; let this little worm see what he’s angered. He’ll pay him back for all the terror and fear he’d felt ever since he’d gotten the first note. “You know where she is, give her back to me! If you’ve harmed a hair on her head I’ll kill you all; all of you kidnapping, blackmailing bastards!”

The witcher inside the cage blinks at him, and then _laughs._ He laughs long and loud, and he can do nothing but stare.

“Oh fuck, it’s you, that little patsy she had, isn’t this just a treat-”

“Dettlaff, come, you need to get back to-” Regis grabs him, trying to pull him away. He snarls and shakes him off. Next to him, the witcher starts laughing even harder. 

“Oh what a shitshow this is-”

Dettlaff turns back to him with a hiss, rattling the cage to silence him, though the other man keeps sneering. “WHERE IS RHENA!”

“Okay, that’s enough of that.” Geralt grabs the back of his shirt, pulling him off the cage, and the wolf witcher has to struggle to do it. Dettlaff had felt weak before, but adrenaline was pumping through him; his claws lengthening, fangs cutting his tongue.

The caged witcher smiles viciously. “Oh, tryin’ to spare him the news, huh? Does he know, huh? Doesn't sound like it.”

“Shut it Gaetan.” Damien scowled at him, giving the cage a kick.

“Aw, I thought you wanted me to talk. So, I’ll talk: ‘Rhena’-your damsel in distress-is actually not in distress, nor much of a damsel. She’s _Sylvia Anna Henriatta,_ the sister of the duchess. You are nothing more than the fucking tool she’s wielding to kill the people between her and the crown. Face it Dettlaff, she used you.” The cat witcher said victoriously.

He opened his mouth to speak-not knowing what to even say-and looked from Gaetan to Regis.

“Is this true.” He rasped to his friend.

Regis’ face looks pained, like he’s trying not to say it but- “Yes.”

Dettlaff stares at him. “...You’re lying.”

Regis’ and Geralt traded worried expressions, and it doesn't go unnoticed. He is suddenly noticing a lot of things, now that his mind is free of influences. 

“You left me a letter with promises, but there’s no Rhena. Three days. Three days and you said in your letter you’d find her. So where is she, Regis, and why keep me down with that tincture? Did you think I didn’t listen when you prattled on like a jabbering crow about your potions and their _uses-”_ He turned to his friend- _his friend, another lie-_ “I won’t go back to being drugged Regis. Not until I have the truth.”

“I assure you, this is the truth, my friend,” Regis says, gesturing to the cage. “A suspect source, I grant, but we’ve done our investigations and found this out before we captured Gaetan.”

“Yes,” He drawls, flicking his gaze to the witcher, “ _We._ You and your dear friend, the witcher. Who lit me on fire and sent me plummeting down a cliffside; when I begged for mercy, no less. And yet, you stand on his side. Yes, I can see just how close friends you are; thick as thieves.”

“Tell me, Regis,” He returns his gaze to the other vampire, “ _Are_ we friends?”

“I-of course we are.” He’s gripping his bag strap again, and Dettlaff flicks his eyes to the motion. The nervous tic he always had, and _what’s the cause of the nervousness, hm? Worry about my line of questioning? Or is it born of a guilty conscience?_

_Or is it both-_

“Are we _really_.” He steps away from them both; and it’s telling that they move closer to one another, Geralt and Regis on the weighted end of the triangle with Dettlaff the longer, further point, the other two huddling together. 

“You are mistaken, I-”

“Yes, I often am, aren't I. About so many things. As you love to tell me, on almost every occasion you can find.” He muttered, then he grabbed at an invisible satchel strap. “ ‘Dettlaff, one must try to expand their interests’, ‘do stop fretting over your daily omelet, you can eat other things than omelets for breakfast’. Although, I must say I hated the ever so popular: ‘would you please look me in the eye when you speak.’”

He looks to Geralt. “I can see why you’d prefer him; I imagine he hardly ever requires _correction.”_

“I-Dettlaff…” Regis trails off, unable to speak.

“Seems you are out of words. Curious, when you’ve always been the more verbose of us.” He turns away; away from them both. They can have each other, he’s alone, was all along, because what’s he to compare with a man Regis had allowed himself to be melted into slag for. When has a strange, problem-riddled vampire like him ever been a worthwhile friend to anyone? Even Jerome had been drifting further away from him at the end. “Our bond, our friendship-Did you feign it all?”

He can hear the soft whisper of a sword being drawn, and he knows what’s going to come. Not quite the end he wanted, but a little nudge, and it can be the end he _needs_ . He can also hear Regis urging his friend-his _real_ friend-into holding his blade. He, too, can hear the doctor as he walks towards him.

“But, I suppose I don’t need you telling me the truth. Despite what you may have thought, I am not an idiot. I can deduce it myself. Promises in a letter, then three days after and none of them fulfilled, with me kept drugged into insensate. Because you _knew_ -” His gorge rises, and it’s difficult to talk. He feels sick, the world swimming in front of him with the heavy knowledge pressing on him. “...because you knew I would react badly to the news.”

He lets him get close, close enough to put a hand on his shoulder, but he doesn't give him a chance to use all of his pretty, patronizing words; he slams Regis up onto the wall, hand around his throat. Even now, even when he grips just a tiny bit tighter to feel the tendons and muscle strain, Regis _still_ holds up a hand to Geralt, still confidant he can _control him-_

“She’s dead.” He murmurs, “Because of you.”

They’d promised him, after all, and unlike others they kept promises. The note they’d slipped to him in Dillagen had said she’d be cut up into tiny, tiny pieces if he went for help, if he had others interfere. But Regis had to meddle; he _always_ knew better, _never_ respected him or his sense of agency, of _course_ he had to get involved, and now he had-

And now she was-

He snarls, and his eyes go silver.


	19. Either you die the hero

* * *

He really should have just stabbed him. 

He really should have just put a few feet of silver in him as soon as he heard the other vampire say  _ ‘you’re lying’,  _ because, dammit, he knew that’s  _ exactly  _ when he stepped off the deep end. Still healing or not, Dettlaff is still a god damned  _ higher vampire,  _ and he knew that this would end badly. Even so he tries to follow Regis’ lead because he knew the doctor wanted to try even though it was most likely futile, and he feels a sort of despair when he sees Dettlaff transform. He feels a surge of panic when the bastard’s hold on Regis’ throat turns into a crushing grip, and it’s like everything slows as he runs, sword raised. He can see the way Regis stiffens, trembles going through his frame as he struggles to fend him off, and then-

Geralt’s there, cutting through red smoke, and Regis collapses, blood dribbling from his nose. He looks frantically around, trying to see where Dettlaff has gone-he can’t have gone far, his still healing body won’t let him-but he can’t see him. Geralt kneels next to Regis, and shakes him.

“Regis, Regis-!” 

Damien runs to his side, taking over. “Go, witcher! Find the vampire before he harms someone! I’ll tend to him, please-!”

Pulling away is almost physically painful, but Damien’s right-Dettlaff’s snapped just like he’d been warned, and now the suicidal bastard was out there, looking for a way to off himself, and ‘ _ the bodies he makes might be on purpose this time’- _

He’s off and running, but he can already hear the screams. Bodies are what Dettlaff needs now, and there's plenty of them to be made here.

Dettlaff isn't going to try to force Regis to end him by attacking him directly. As he’s lacking bandits to revenge himself on or a lover and friend to disgust with it, he’ll substitute them with innocent bystanders because Dettlaff knows Regis. Knows he won’t kill him in self-defense, but he will kill a monster that’s forgotten he once killed a rampaging beast for doing just this very thing.

_ Or maybe he does remember the fiend and the mountains of people it killed, remembers that boy with the apple, and the rage and hatred he’d felt towards that beast for indiscriminately trampling him beneath its hooves like it’d done to hundreds of others. Maybe that’s what gave him the idea to drive Regis to kill him, because he knows even Regis won’t be able to ignore a beast rampaging and driving his claws into an innocent boy- _

He’s turned the corner and there he is, waiting for him. In the background he can see the staff of the estate- _ his staff, the ones he’d taken on responsibility for, had to protect, and instead he’d let this lion in- _ running and screaming in the background, and-oh god,  _ no,  _ there's fleders, the bastard had called them into the estate. He can feel his chest squeeze, because even the best-trained normal humans will have a hard time killing one, let alone three-

He turns his attention back to the vampire, who’s coiling to spring not at the milling people, but  _ him,  _ and suddenly he knows. The people here are just to get him away from Regis, to get him to attack Dettlaff, because-

_ - _ **_I’m_ ** _ the boy with the apple.  _

* * *

Damien has taken the doctor in his arms and is running pell-mell for his saddlebags. Regis hadn't woken, not with slaps nor water splashed on his face, and while he knew his throat had been crushed by the other vampire, he’d  _ seen  _ the seemingly frail man take a sword to his chest and heal instantly. His throat had already healed in fact, but the way his nose was bleeding- _ still  _ bleeding, despite no obvious breaks-is doubly concerning. The sword wound hadn’t even left a stain on his clothes, but there's a dark, almost black, dribble trailing under his nose. Dettlaff had done  _ something  _ to the doctor, and he can’t help but remember him and Regis chatting, the gentle barber-surgeon explaining that only a vampire could kill another-they could be defeated, yes, but they would always return. Another vampire was needed to deliver the final blow to make death truly final.

Right now though, he was wondering if vampires could do more to one another than inflicting a killing blow. He needed to figure out what Dettlaff had done and  _ fast,  _ because while Geralt could indeed fight the other vampire-after all that’s what witchers were for-it left the people of the estate vulnerable. Just moments ago he’d seen a disgusting horror gallop past him, it’s long, deadly talons kicking up clods behind it. A vampire of some sort, he could only assume. From what Regis had told him, his former friend had something of a kinship with the more bestial of their kind. He’d been lucky the creature had ignored him when going to the feast of civilians beyond, but he could hear the screeches of more of them over the estate. He only had a small contingent of his men here, and that was not going to be enough. If he could manage to wake the vampire in his arms, he could hopefully deal with Dettlaff, leaving the witcher free to kill the lesser vampires and his men could evacuate the civilians.

His saddlebags that he’d-thankfully-taken  _ off  _ his horse, who he can’t imagine not bolting with these monstrosities about, just might have his salvation, if he can just reach them without being pounced up by these ugly vampire equivalents of panthers. He’s joined by Janne, the loyal doppler jogging along beside him.

“Sir, what are your-”

“Evacuate the civilians, get them to safety, that’s our priority. There’s not enough of us to kill these things!” He pants. “See if Getrude can enact some sort of shelter for them; or shield them as you get them to a safe harbor if-”

He spots the majordomo, who’s attempting to herd the staff. “Into the cellars, into the cellars, just like we drilled!”

“Is he mad,” Janne muttered, “That’s just a dead end, the creatures just have to follow them down!”

He makes a quick detour, snarling at the man, “No, you need to  _ leave,  _ get-”

“Not all have the legs to do so captain,” Basil said frantically, and Damien kicks himself because he’s right. They don't have enough horses to carry all the children or elderly, none that aren't already mad with fear. “The cellars have a thick, locking door built to withstand sieges, it’s a remnant of-”

“History lesson later!” Damien snaps, and turns to Janne. “New plan; get Gertrude and the men, round up the staff and get them here.”

“What about-”

“I’ll see if I can’t wake our doctor. Now go!”

Janne peels off, and he keeps going. He’s glad he’d never scrimped on maintaining his running form, most men of his bulk relied on physical power and a horse rather than endurance in a foot chase. He’s doubly glad the vampire in his arms doesn't weigh as much as he should either, likely something to do with that ‘partially ether’ nonsense he’d gone into confusing depth about. He’s able to make good time, and skids into the stables unmolested by any monsters. Inside, the horses are practically screaming, the scent of blood heavy in the air. To his horror, he needn't have worried about his horse bolting-Joaquin wasn't going to be running ever again, from the looks of it. He flicks his eyes everywhere, but there's no sign of the creature that splattered his mount all over the far wall. He lets Regis down, and frantically upends his saddlebag, looking and looking for- _ ah, smelling salts! _

Damien packed for every eventuality, so he always had some handy. He hopes it works on vampires just as well as people, otherwise this run would have been for nothing, and he’d have to go back and hope Janne had found Getrude, and found her alive.

Damien is a bit occupied, so he can be forgiven for not noticing the fleder creeping down from the ceiling.

Thankfully, Regis does.

He’s distantly amused to see vampires react pretty much like anyone else to smelling salts-gagging and coughing-then distantly terrified when the teeth and claws come out. He supposes he probably should have taken into account a vampire woken so rudely might not take so kindly to it, no matter how kindly-seeming the vampire in question is. The horrid, wet thud of his claws hitting home is the last thing Damien expects to hear, though the expected pain doesn't come, oddly enough. Also, curiously, he’s pretty sure the gurgling isnt coming from him. 

He turns to see-not claws in his neck and shoulder, but the doctor’s arm extending past him into-

He makes a rather unmanly noise and scrambles away, and Regis lets the impaled fleder drop. The latter twitches weakly in its death throes-the claws having shot past the face into the brain-and it doesn't recover either. These creatures must not be as enduring as their intelligent brethren, and he feels a little flame of hope when he sees the former rise. Regis staggers a bit, looking rather the worse for wear, but he looks well enough to try to take on Dettlaff.

“What-?”

“I can only assume your...well,  _ former _ friend summoned it. I think there's a few more running about, but I believe it’s best if you deal with the one that brought them.”

Regis’ face looked pained. “Dettlaff. Is he…?”

“I saw Geralt battling him. I had hoped you would take him on, leaving Geralt free to deal with these creatures. My men and I are taking the staff into safety as we speak.”

Regis nodded and heaved a sigh. “...It’s gone too far. I’m afraid I might have to…”

“I understand your reluctance, but if it has to be done, so be it,” Damien says, following him out. “Perhaps you owe him your life, but he is not entitled to the lives of innocent people, no matter how wronged he may be in all this.” 

“No, he is not,” Regis said softly. “But it is cold comfort when his blood will be on my fangs, no matter how necessary it was.”

Damien can’t say much to that-perhaps when they all weren't running for their lives in the whirlwind of a mad demigod he would find the words-but for now all he can offer is a silent prayer and a brief squeeze of the shoulder to comfort the gentle barber-surgeon. The same man who’d told him the sole reason he’d become a doctor was to save lives; and now...well, there's no time for words, only time for them to both go and try to whether this night of long fangs as best as they can.

Regis watches the man hurry off, and remembers telling Dettlaff of the time he’d spent with the plasma crowd, that he’d done terrible things while in it, though he couldn't bring himself to go into any depth. Never could really, not with him, not with Geralt or any of their little band. But he  _ could  _ tell him about how, even on the best of his days, he knew there was always that lingering siren call of blood, and he’d always have to be on guard, that-

_ “-It’s always there.” Dettlaff had said. _

_ He’d looked up at him from where he’d sitting at his workbench, struggling to come up with the words, and his friend had been standing next to him, looking down at him with a soft, sad, understanding expression.  _

He’d felt so gratified that he’d finally had someone understand, _ and oh, how did I miss that glaring hint- _

-And at that moment he’d felt a warm glow of empathy, true empathy, and how could anyone have ever said that his friend lacked it? Maybe he didn’t express himself well, his face always so stoic and unchanging, little variance to the expression, but the ability to express it was the only thing he lacked. If anything he was  _ more  _ empathetic if nursing a heap of ash back into being even though they hadn't been friends for years and he’d abandoned him in the end was any indication. Regis had even started to feel more comfortable, more at ease with him than he’d been with other people for so many long, lonely years. He’d started to feel that maybe he  _ could _ start to tell him of things he hadn't been able to discuss with others before, that...that he might understand that too. That he might...

It’s a soft, quiet sort of tragedy that he’d only just recognized that tiny little flicker of flame for what it was by it guttering out.

_ And now Dettlaff is looking up at him with blood on his lips, a mirror of so many nighttime fears of losing himself to his addiction again- _

_ And there’s no light, no light behind those bright blue eyes- _

They slam together violently, Regis tearing him off Geralt where he’d been burying his face in the blood and gore, and Regis has a dissociated second remembering the man’s tale of having his throat laid open by a striga before he flings Dettlaff into a wall.

Dettlaff straightens, slowly, jerking his shoulder joint back in with a pop, and then their battle is joined. Regis knows this will be a very close match, despite Dettlaff’s still-healing injuries. He remembers well the quick flush of strength and speed blood gives just after drinking it, and he’d had probably the most potent blood a vampire can imbibe: A witcher’s. He doesn't seem to be choking on it, either, so Geralt either didn't get the chance to imbibe a Black Blood, or Dettlaff is one of the few vampires resistant to it. 

_ He also knows that the battle will be close because every move is weighted with the knowledge that he’ll...that he’ll have to- _

They lock claws, and Regis is inches away from his face, close enough to see the deadly silver and the madness there.

“You...tricked me. Both of you.” Dettlaff hissed.

He shakes his head, straining. “We didn't plan any of-”

But he’s not listening. “Silence.”

Dettlaff tries to kick him in the chest, and maybe it would have worked, but even with the adrenaline and blood, the other vampire is considerably weaker. Regis is able to twist awkwardly out of the way and wrestle them both to the ground. The fight, now that they’re locked, is a low and graceless thing, as Regis refuses to let go because he  _ knows  _ what Dettlaff is after, what he’d been trying-

_ Because at that moment where he’d felt the grip on his throat turn into a fist there had been red smoke in his mind, insidious and invading, _ **_violating_ ** _ - _

_ And at that moment he’d seen into Dettlaff’s mind, a whirlwind of broken thoughts, but one stood out clearly; an image of Geralt staring, unseeing, into the sky and he’d known what- _

_ And then it was bright white light eating away everything except the last thought of- _

_ ‘Light can be so violent’- _

He knows in his soul that if he lets go, Dettlaff will do the last item in a long list of unforgivable sins; greater than violating his mind to keep him unconscious, greater than the deaths of innocent people (much as it pains him to admit, when death is personal it’s...)

_Just earlier today Geralt had pointed out something he’d missed,_ _and then smiled at him warmly and promised to lend a hand with Dettlaff, lend his house, his time, to help; and that offer had felt like a warm little candle of hope held close to the chest, a reassurance ‘it can be done, it’s not insurmountable’-_

-And Dettlaff would extinguish that flame, without a second thought to what he’d done, what it would mean to Regis, other than one bond to sever to get him to…

_ -“And if he does snap he might...not be thinking clearly. Might try to…” _

He might have to…

Dettlaff snarls, and Regis jerks as he feels the claws slam into his spine. It was a lucky hit, and everything below the claws goes numb and slack, giving the other vampire the time to look around frantically. He howls in frustration to see the spot where Geralt had been was empty save for a bloody patch, and  _ her. _

_ She’s standing-outline shuddering with static-in her bloodied griffin skin, breasts bared to the night, arms raised to welcome in the bloodlust. When Tasar had died alongside his life as Drosselmyer, she’d been there. When he’d read the last few pages detailing what had happened to Jerome and his part in it, she’d been there. And now Rhena...now that the last person he’d clung onto was gone, she’d come again but really... _

_ ….She was  _ **_always_ ** _ there. _

* * *

_ Bad, bad bad! _

The other fleders squealed and shrieked, cringing back and dropping their heads in submission, but that didn't stop the drubbing they were receiving. It  _ did  _ stop them from trying to dart ‘round again and get to the prey frolicking just beyond. They’d been called in by the master and were only too happy to swarm and revel in the blood, but now they were stalled by pack alpha, who was angry at them. They whimpered in confusion at  _ why, why why-master said could hunt but alpha angry for hunting, must appease!  _

They kowtowed and groveled, but alpha still kept hissing and slapping them about the head and shoulders, until they finally turned tail and hurried off, wailing. The largest chased them out but let them go, slapping the ground in an aggressive display and warning not to come back. That done, it hurried back in to find master, because master had called but-

_ But master had called to hunt the bald things, but he never let hunt the bald things, bald things bad bald things DANGER, always leave bald things alone, for years years years, never- _

_ And master’s call felt bad, felt like when he in bad mind, angry mind, like bad dreams- _

_ And master fighting, fighting New Friend, now fighting blood-brother, is bad all bad- _

‘New friend’ was lying on the ground, blood coming from his neck. It smelt tempting, but only in a background way-he was still alive, which was good. If he died, would be eaten, of course-food good, any food, but needed to keep him alive.  _ Friend need to stay alive, friend could help calm down master, help him out of his bad dream like not-blood-brother did sometimes before he go. _

It grabbed the human and dragged him well away from the fight. Master was very destructive when in his bad dreams; not-blood-brother had suffered a few times, once or twice needing to be dragged out. They still remembered how to take care of not-blood-brother, and this human was almost the same; even had their little shiny-drinks in the same colors and smells. First was the same grooming that was given to any member of the pack when they were injured, and it licks the wound clean- _ gah, blood greasy, just like not-blood-brother, deer is sweeter _ -and they pull a face, spitting, but keep cleaning until the blood stops and clots. Next, wake him enough for drink. Licking the face usually worked, and it did this time, New Friend spluttering to semi-consciousness. Now they could get the shiny drink that smelled like flower and drowner, open it, and shove into the mouth, just like not-blood-brother had trained them to do. He gagged a bit, but did drink it; just like not-blood-brother he drank messy when this happened, like a little fledgling, but George knew better than to lick him clean. Shiny drinks made them sick.

Geralt groaned back to consciousness, and his neck  _ hurt.  _ It wasn't as bad as the striga but it was close. He blinked, and his vision slowly came into focus, though it took a few minutes to figure out just what he was seeing.

It was a fleder, inches from his face.

He froze, but it didn't attack, merely snuffling at him. He paused, hand on the hilt of his sword, feeling a slow sort of understanding creep over him.

“...George?”

The fleder let out a series of excited clicks and squeaks, completely incomprehensible, but he’s got a feeling it’s a ‘yes’. He half expected it to speak in that particular slow, ponderous way, but it’s not like he’s tripping through Dettlaff’s brain right now getting to talk to fleders and plummards. At least he knows he’s not going to get his blood sucked again, once was enough. He’s surprisingly okay for getting his neck bitten, and to his bafflement he could taste swallow residue, even though he didn't remember drinking one. He sits up, wincing as the movement makes his neck throb. Soon enough the pain has subsided to a dull throb, and the dizziness is gone. His neck will be very tender for the next few days, but he’ll live. George helps him to his feet, and once he’s standing the fleder makes some kind of...distressed squeaking noise.

“...Timmy in the well?” He says groggily, staggering behind it. 

A swallow on top of extreme blood loss always made him feel like his head was stuffed with cotton, but it didn't require much thought to follow the fleder. They walk through the main building, and it’s a mess. His long table is broken, everything that was on it on the floor, though thankfully nothing is  _ currently  _ on fire, even though it looks like part of it  _ was  _ on fire. Especially Dettlaff’s room, with damage done to the runes. Well,  _ that  _ explains why he was able to get out, and why he was awake in the first place-fire put a damper on dosing the vampire, probably keeping the main building and the vampire from burning up took priority. He has to take a breather to fight off a wash of dizziness outside of the door with the first patient he’d picked up. To his amusement, the fucking griffin witcher is still snoozing away, blissfully unaware of...well, everything.

He watches blearily as the fleder stares into the room, nose wiggling frantically. Suddenly it bursts into movement, squealing excitedly, jumping up and down just like...well, a dog happy to see a friend after a long time apart. He remembered George and, uh...memory-Jerome? Resonance-Jerome? Whatever, the version of Jerome that lived in Dettlaff’s head was on a first-name basis with the...George that lived in Dettlaff’s head-

(Gods, trying to describe anything regarding that potion sounded so  _ insane-) _

-And apparently, it had some basis in reality because this, of all things, is what wakes Jerome. He cranes his head up and blinks at the sight of George doing a little dance of greeting.

“Aww,” He slurs, “Who’s a pretty bat, huh?”

Oh, he’s  _ definitely  _ still hopped up on pain meds. He doesn't get the chance to really think over Jerome when he hears a howl outside; it sounds...ominous. He looks up, through the open front doors, and he can see Dettlaff and- Oh gods, Regis, he’s- __

The fleder shrieks, galloping out to intercept them while making an almighty racket. Geralt remembers the fleder charging between him and Jerome and now he sees it try to do the same for Dettlaff and Regis, shrieking and slapping the ground in front of Dettlaff, getting his attention away from the doctor. It’s an opportunity for a break, and Geralt tries to take advantage of it, mind struggling to think through the way the world is tilting and swirling, and- _ oh fuck, the venom its...shit it’s way more potent than a bruxa...never been bit by… _

Taking on a _ true  _ higher vampire was just something that witchers didn't do, not unless they were in a team, and not in centuries. Nothing in the texts he’d read mentioned this, the way he’s seeing the walls pulsate with flesh and blood. It’s a struggle to think, and he ends up staring down at his own hands and the ring Regis had given him from Ciri. Regis, poor fucking Regis, he didn't deserve any of this, and he couldn't see how this battle would end any other way that him having to kill Dettlaff, and oh gods, how was he to keep his promise, his promise to spare his friend that-he wishes he had more time, more…

He blinks at the ring.

Blinks again.

... _ Time. _

* * *

Regis gasps ineffectually, pinned with the claws grating against his vertebrae, shielded by poor George. He remembers when Dettlaff had excitedly introduced him to his pack; a sprawling organization of dozens of plummards, two Garkains, alps, even an ekimmara. But this fleder, he remembered, was special. It was the only one with a name, as Dettlaff never  _ named  _ his...well, to be honest, pets. Never needed to, when he could call them with a thought. But this one was George, the oldest member; the one Dettlaff fed on his own blood, extending its life to an astonishing degree, making it far more powerful to the point even the ekimmara and alps gave it respect, and even made it a good deal smarter. In terms of intelligence it was perhaps as smart as a pig, and even knew  _ tricks,  _ as silly as that sounded. It was the peacemaker of the pack, breaking up fights, and cared for the other members along with the more intelligent alps when Dettlaff was gone.

And right now it was doing its best to play that role, even though he could smell the fear on it, even though it meant  _ standing up to Dettlaff. _

The higher vampire snarls at it and it cringes, whining lowly, but still doesn't back down. It even tries to shove its body between them, butting its head against Dettlaff’s chest, trying to dislodge him. There’s a flicker of red in the pupils of Dettlaff’s eyes, and Regis knows that Dettlaff is using his telepathy to command George to get out of the way. To Regis’s surprise it  _ resists,  _ hissing and shaking, struggling against his will, shielding Regis with its body the best that it can.

It squeals in pain and terror as Dettlaff whips his claws out of Regis and slashes at the lesser vampire. He’s horrified because this creature...it’s like kicking a loyal dog; as if he’d taken a knife to Roach-

From the house he can hear a faint  _ “George? Georgie?” _ at the noise. It sounds like his first patient, strangely enough, but he doesn't get the time to think about it. Only time to act, to slash and claw and  _ tear,  _ because he must weaken him, must take down his one-time saviour because he can’t let him-he has to-

Everything is a bloody blur, and he only stops when Dettlaff isn’t fighting anymore, his torso cut from the rest of him, weakly stirring. There’s tendrils of black from the parts, trying to pull them back together, but it’s slow. There’s time. Time enough to…

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, leaning in.

And that’s when time  _ stops. _

Regis blinks, confused, until he feels a presence at his side. He looks up and...it’s Ciri. The  _ lady of space and time,  _ the air shimmering around her. Her face is calm, but sad. 

“I lost control once.” She said, very softly. “When Vesimer died. In that moment I felt the power surge and...well, maybe I could have stopped it. Probably not, but I could have  _ tried  _ to stop it. But at that moment, I didn't want to. To me, my entire world ended; and I wanted the rest of existence to end too. On some level, I knew it would kill everyone I knew. Geralt. Yen. Triss. Lambert and Eskel, and more besides-and I hated that I’d kill them, but at that moment, I felt their deaths were warranted, if I got to take out the wild hunt. _ ” _

She paused for a moment.

“Even after I was stopped, I was angry at  _ being  _ stopped. I thought it terribly hypocritical, considering that every person there would’ve laid down their lives to stop the Wild Hunt. Like Avallac’h was spitting on Vesemir’s sacrifice by stopping me. Took a long time for me to calm down, and then of course I was  _ glad _ to be stopped because I would have killed more than just the wild hunt. But at that moment...it was  _ justified _ .”

Ciri crouched down, looking at the vampire, his mouth still smeared with her foster-father’s blood, and claws wet with Regis’ blood. There’s no pity in the gaze, nor condemnation. Just understanding, a kind of understanding that Regis knows he’ll never get, because he’s never  _ been  _ in that kind of situation, driven to the point where he’d sacrifice his own morals and his friends like Ciri had almost done, like Dettlaff  _ was doing.  _ But regardless of whether he does understand his reasons behind the rampage, it doesn't excuse the destruction.

“I have to stop him; like you had to be stopped. I have to...” He swallows. “Please, leave me.”

“No.”

“I  _ insist-” _

“So do I,” She sighs. “Come on Regis, I’ve heard Geralt tell me your story a million times, how you always said he didn't have to lone wolf everything. For once, take your own advice?”

“This isn't the same, dear Cirilla.” He said softly. “I saw-he’s not...he’s not well. I...I’m not sure he  _ can  _ be calmed like you, if he would come eventually to see reason.”

“That’s fine,” She gestured to everything; the frozen birds, the still air. “We’ve got time.”

* * *

Geralt blinked, and he’s not sure but...well, it almost felt like the quick release of air after time resumed when that creepy bastard Gaunter had stopped time in the tavern, and he stares in awe. Dettlaff is suddenly in the cage they’d picked up from Teshna Mutnam, passed out and safely contained. When Ciri had said that could actually  _ stop time itself  _ he hadn't quite believed her-he thought maybe she could just...throw Dettlaff through a portal to the bottom of the sea or something. Let him try to rage at the goddamn fish while fighting off the pressure of thousands of tons of water all he wanted; at least Regis-and  _ everyone else- _ would be safe from his psychotic urges. He stands slowly, fighting off the last lingering traces of venom, and slowly walks out. 

Poor George is whimpering, but the cuts seem shallow, and both eyes are intact. The wounds will heal, even lesser vampires healed fast. Regis, too, seems okay physically, though the...mental side of things are...well. He wants to comfort him, but he’s a witcher and meditating and/or heavy drinking is all that he knows in the way of dealing with emotions. Ciri, to his surprise, has taken up that particular cross, and he saw a little bit of Nenneke in her here. She says nothing at all, just draps an arm across his heaving shoulders, and while it’s quiet he can hear the hitches in Regis’ breathing, and he stands uselessly by until Ciri gives him a nod.  _ I’ll handle this,  _ her expression says, and he leaves to make sure the other fleders he’d seen are gone and the estate is safe. He’s worried to notice the whole place is quiet, not a soul left, until he hears quiet voices echoing up from the cellar.

He troops down and he sees a light at the end of the proverbial and literal tunnel and is glad to see that beyond the iron gates is Damien, his men, and practically everyone from the estate, safe from monsters. He’s less pleased to smell blood, and to see-

“BB?” 

Geralt’s eyes widen at the sight of his majordomo lying on the floor, his neck a mass of bandages and blood. He runs in to crouch at his side, hands hovering uselessly. He’s not the only one injured either, along with a few staff tending to bites and cuts, one of Damien’s men has lost an arm, and Damien himself is sporting a nasty set of claw marks on his face. Gertrude-the only mage who might have been able to help-is dealing with a very badly mangled leg, too out of it with pain to help. The herbalist grandmother who occasionally visited Corvo Bianco had done a good job of binding BB’s neck, but it’s not going to be enough. The bandage is soaked through, and unless they can find a way to stop the bleeding, the majordomo is doomed. Geralt’s not a doctor, but he does know someone who is.

Damien helps him heft BB and they carry him up. “Is the vampire…?”

“Contained.” Geralt grunts. “That cage came in handy.”

“What happened to the assassin in it?”

“No idea. Might’ve been killed, I’ll ask Ciri when we get up. BB takes first priority; he and any other casualties.”

They form a caravan, Damien and Geralt in the front, and the injured being carried or walking themselves up. Regis seemned glad for the distraction, getting to work on BB’s injury, and putting Geralt to work to fetch his kit. The man is very lucky; fleders are usually pretty gruesome when it comes to attacks; typically going to town on their victims, tearing and slashing. However, according to the guards a much larger fleder came charging in and drove the others away, probably just in time to prevent the one that had latched onto BB from shaking him like a ragdoll. George, obviously; the next time he saw that fleder he was going to  _ definitely  _ give it a nice pile of choice offal and a few buckets of blood from the slaughterhouse. Speaking of, George had made itself scarce shortly after; it probably hadn't wanted to stick around, not after being hit by Dettlaff. Probably left to lick its wounds in peace and quiet. 

He hands BB to Regis and he sets to work. The doctor splashes on some vodka to clean it and flush out some of the venom, and a tincture of cinquefoil, oak leaf, yarrow, and fleawort to dry the wound a bit and help stop the bleeding. Lastly, he paints the wound with a new alchemical compound of his own invention, meant to counter the fleder venom that’s making poor BB bleed so damn much. Cleaning done, the shredded muscles are sutured separately, then the fascia, fat, and skin. Layers of neat, tiny stitches hold everything in place, and careful dabbing with arrowroot-impregnated gauze controls bleeding during the surgery. Geralt has always envied Regis’ stitchwork, his is never as good. He at least helped by acting as a field nurse to him, listening to him mutter worriedly about infection and tetanus while applying arrowroot-starch bandages, blue bread mold poultice on top of that, then another layer of bandage. Geralt knows enough about wounds to understand that tetanus is a waiting game as to whether or not one gets it, and he hopes to whatever god is listening that BB doesn't. Thankfully, he’s at least able to help with this part, wrapping a few layers of ordinary bandages on top of everything and down the patient’s arm to keep it pinned at his side.

By then Ciri arrives with backup, bringing along some nurses, another doctor, and even a low-level mage, who immediately gets to work on Gertrude’s poor leg. To Geralt’s amusement, as soon as her pain is the least bit manageable she offers her help and is soon sitting up working on others. Regis really comes into his own here, and Geralt watches with a deep respect for the vampire as he takes command, easily directing the new hands and distributing the antivenom to them. By the time everyone is tended to the night has really worn on, the almost-full moon past its zenith. It was probably three in the morning by the time everything is cleaned up and packed away, and Geralt joins Regis for a breather on the porch. They’ve both cleaned off the worst of it, though he suspects they both want an actual bath.

Geralt wordlessly hands him a full cup of wine. It’s not mandrake hooch, so it’s not going to dull anything, but at least it should wet his throat. Geralt’s...worried about Regis, but he’s never been good with emotions and they talk about light topics for a bit- If he’s going to retire to this place and other small things. 

“What’s the verdict for BB?”

“Well, I’ll keep the starched bandages on for now until he’s past the danger of bleeding, then swap them for regular. Unfortunately for him, I can’t give him any poppy, or at least not a strong dose, until we’re sure the wound is healing- He needs to be able to feel any increase in pain, so I can catch an abscess in time,” Regis said, rubbing his face; looking exhausted. It had been a long day for both of them. He took a breath and continued. “Once he’s past that window of risk he should heal well, though I’m afraid the bite will have lasting damage. He’ll never be able to raise his arm straight out from his side, and he’ll need exercises to regain as much range of moment as possible, but he’ll have use of the arm all things considered. It’s lucky his profession doesn’t have an abundance of physical labor.”

“Thank you Regis.” He says softly, trying to-without saying it-to offer...something to his friend. More than just gratitude for stitching up his majordomo. Reassurance maybe, because he’d seen the way Regis had been shaken, having a very quiet breakdown under Ciri’s comforting arm. 

He must have heard a little bit of it, because the doctor is quiet for a while, face tired and drawn. “...You're welcome.”

They’re silent for a while, tiredly eating and drinking until Regis finally speaks. “I’m afraid that while the cage is currently filled, it was empty when we found it. Blood on the manacles and...well, flesh, too. I think your cat witcher degloved one of his hands so as to release himself.”

“He’s not  _ mine.”  _ He muttered, cringing at the “degloving” bit. “And wouldn't that just mangle his hand beyond any use?”

“Normally, yes. But we’ve both seen his astonishing healing abilities; possibly it healed enough to have very basic use of it.”

“Well, that would’ve made the cage useless for Khagmar too then, since he could just do the same thing to escape.”

“Not necessarily. The cage restricts many of our abilities,  _ including  _ regeneration. But for a creature that is not fully a vampire…”

“Oh, fucking hell.” Geralt muttered. “If he wasn't already a pain in the ass, now he’s a bloody half-vampire. Sounds like those romance books Yen reads, only not sexy.”

“Well, I wouldn't exactly say  _ half.  _ It seems he only got our regeneration abilities and our strength and the, ah, teeth. Perhaps a fifth?”

“Well, he can’t mist or he’d taken advantage of that in the fight, and I’ve no idea if he got your inability to age either, though I hope not. Can only guess if he sees body heat and has the sense of hearing.”

“How did-”

“I was in Dettlaff’s head, remember? Although I can’t imagine how you sleep; hearing the squeaking of mice and whatnot would drive me  _ insane.” _

Regis actually manages a chuckle at that. “We manage.”

They’re quiet again, and Geralt figures he may as well broach the more difficult topic before one or both of them nods off from exhaustion. “Regis...about Dettlaff…”

Regis’ expression turns stoney, and he can tell the vampire is trying not to let his feelings show. “He’s in the cage in the cellar.” He says quietly. “It’s the most secure way possible of containing him.”

Geralt frowns. “She didn't just-?”

“I think she has some degree of...empathy for him. I believe it stems from when Vesimer died and her powers-well, suffice to say it’s not the exact same situation, but enough that she was willing to cage him rather than ‘throwing him into the sun’ as you’ve suggested before.”

“Right.” Geralt says awkwardly, though he can’t help but look around at the estate. All these people here that he had a responsibility for, care for,  _ protect- _

“If we cannot make progress, I will end it,” Regis says very quietly. “I was willing to and would have if Ciri had not done what she did. I will not allow him to drag other’s lives into his well of self-destruction.”

Geralt chewed on that for a bit. “...Alright. The offer still stands. If you need help with him, all you have to do is ask.”

Regis swallowed and blinked a few times, though he’s sure that Geralt won’t miss the way his eyes are wetter than normal. “...Thank you. I will.”

Geralt nods and gets up with a tired sigh. “C’mon doc, think it’s time for both of us to get some sleep.”

Regis pries himself out of the chair to follow him back. To his great relief, someone has salvaged his cot and even put down fresh sheets. The room still smells faintly of smoke and he’s now sharing it with Basil rather than Dettlaff but it’s no hardship, not when the soft breathing of the other man is somewhat lulling to his tired mind and aching soul. He tries not to think about how he’s  _ not  _ sharing it with Dettlaff though; he needs rest. He knows he’s teetering on the edge of burnout, and if he doesn't take some time to himself to just  _ rest  _ he’ll be too tired to be of any use to anyone, least of all Dettlaff. He has a daunting task in front of him, even with Geralt’s promised help. One that he’s not sure he can even accomplish; he knows his relationship with his blood-brother is compromised, that the other vampire no longer trusted him. He might never be able to rebuild that trust between both of them. 

He’s ashamed to admit, he...he doesn't know if he wants to even try. He could still feel the grip on his throat, the terror he’d felt knowing that he might lose Geralt so soon after being reunited with him. He’s not sure if he can forgive him for using Geralt as a tool; for using so many innocent people as a tool. How many could have died tonight? How many would still feel the repercussions of tonight? How many nightmares would wake people from sleep, or ruined limbs forever impact the lives of bystanders? Gertrude the mage had put on a brave face, but they both knew she’d never walk without a cane again. Across from him, Basil shifted uneasily in his sleep, dreams trying to make their way through the unconsciousness. 

He sits down on the bed and sighs shakily, head in his hands. He  _ has  _ to remember that what happened tonight wasn't the Dettlaff he’d come to know and lo-come to know. What he’d seen in that brief glimpse...well, he’d seen it elsewhere, in the eyes of people he’d treated before. It had a lot of names-  _ madness, rabid, possessed- _ but what it ultimately added up to was that Detlaff no longer recognized reality from delusion. Dettlaff  _ adored _ children and would never see them come to harm; but yet there had been children crying in their mother’s arms in the aftermath of this destruction. In that moment-

_ -“But at that moment...it was justified.” _

He curls his hands into fists, gritting his teeth, trying to hold onto the vision of the Dettlaff he’d known, the quiet, empathetic man who hopefully still remained under all that insanity that twisted his reality into where even the worst of means justify the ends. Had to hold on to the knowledge that Geralt would stand shoulder to shoulder with him in trying to get that man back. 

He sighs, and slowly, very slowly, releases that tension. He so very tired and spends a full minute just sitting, fully clothed on the edge of the bed staring at the floor.

He’s so tired, in fact, he almost misses it.

Regis blinks muzzily at the syringe near his foot. Strange, his was in his bag with the rest of his equipment. This one was broken, though some kind of clear liquid residue was still clinging to the inside. Over the pervasive stink of smoke he can smell a trace of sickly sweetness. He frowns, and picks up the vial, examining it closely and taking a deeper-

Instinctual panic and fear slam into him, and he mists away to scrabble at the opposite wall like an animal trapped. His claws and teeth are out and he presses into the wall, hissing lowly at the vial. After a few moments of terror thrashing its way through him, he’s left shaking like a leaf. He’s drooling too, venom and saliva intermingling and dripping on the floor, a natural reaction to the stink of-

_ -death, death, death, MURDER- _

-His instincts are shrilling at him to snap at the threat,  _ kill or be killed,  _ and it takes a very long time to wrestle his some semblance of control back. The vial glints mockingly at him, and some little animal-fear makes it almost seem like it’s moving. 

Eventually, he’s able to actually think, but that also means he’s  _ able to think.  _ He knows what is in that vial, what it means that  _ it's in a vial- _

He’s starting to hyperventilate again-

He forces himself to close his eyes, to breathe through his mouth, so he can neither see nor smell it. Then he carefully feels for it- _ careful!- _ and flings it away. He can hear it fall outside, into the grass, and it’s only then that he can feel his heart rate start to slow. 

He opens his eyes.

This was Dettlaff’s room this morning. Just this morning, a cat witcher had been in this room. The same one who had been in the lab; the lab that had used Dettlaff’s blood to make a man whose bite had made him bleed and bleed-

Regis swallowed, then scrabbled for the lab notes. He’d been focusing on so many other things he hadn’t even begun to read them. They had survived the fire, and he spread them on the floor, his heart growing colder and colder as he read them. 

_ The venom glands harvested are easy to keep alive, if given a nutrient bath; the tissue and protoplasm can even be made to increase itself- _

_ I’m gratified to learn that the venom, though difficult to reproduce, is not impossible. The witcher will be pleased- _

He feels numb. After the discovery of who was behind it, it was assumed Syanna strictly wanted to make secret police of enhanced humans to cement her power; the idea that this was the work of some other enemy of Dettlaff going on a crusade against vampires, in general, was discarded. But maybe-

_ Calm down Regis,  _ a nervous little voice piped up,  _ before you go off the paranoia deep end like Dettlaff. More likely she’d used the lab to manufacture something to tie up the last loose end; no reason for her to go on a rampage against... _

_ No, no reason at all, _ he tries to convince himself as he reads and re-reads and studies…

_ None at all. _


	20. She's a little runaway

  
  


* * *

Geralt felt like shit.

He groaned into awareness sometime late afternoon, his neck throbbing madly, a headache behind his eyes. He felt weak and nauseous too, which was probably due to losing so much blood. He found it difficult to actually force himself awake, but he couldn't just lay here and-

_Fingers on his neck-_

“It’s only me, Geralt.”

He blinked, hand hovering from where he’d almost grabbed the fingers traipsing their way over his wound. “...Yen?” He croaked.

“The one and only.” She chuckled, and he practically melted when he felt the warmth of her magic sink into his neck. She continued in a softer tone. “Ciri found me as I was making my way here and told me what had been going on. Just _what_ have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“Too much.” He sighed, and she hummed softly to herself as she worked. 

It took a few minutes, but the throbbing went away, as did his headache and nausea. His neck was still sore, but he could move it a bit if he went slow and he could sit up without the room swimming. Yen took a chair at his desk, a vision of elegance and capability. He couldn't resist taking a deeper breath to get the scent of lilacs and gooseberries filling his nose, and something that had been tense ever since this damn contract started going downhill relaxed. Seeing her was like being tossed a hunk of wood to cling too, and only then realizing you’d been drowning. She had a knowing look on her face, and he was pretty sure that she didn't even need to read his mind to know what he was thinking. 

“Good to see you, Yen. Wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Well, I was getting tired of that smelly barge anyway. Did you know our daughter has figured out how to make a portal big enough for an army of footmen to carry everything over? Very convenient. Wish I could do that, but alas, I resigned myself to the barge. Only way to get all my luggage here, at least until Ciri popped in and nearly gave the captain a heart attack.”

He wallowed in the warm, fuzzy feeling _our daughter_ gave him for a moment, then smiled in amusement. “You brought the unicorn, didnt you.”

She smiled in that small, smug way that said she had, and dammit, he’d _missed_ her. “Got everything moved in?”

“Yes, with some help from the footmen Ciri lent me. Your staff here is still recovering from last night.” She paused, her eyes focusing on the angry bite mark on his neck. “I’d heard that the one who went on a rampage is still around?”

“Yeah, and Yen, I know you want to liquify him, but-”

“Yes, yes, I know.” She sighed. “And as much as I would like to, ashing him would do little else but make him someone else’s problem a century down the road.”

“Can’t argue with that logic.” 

“Mmm. Of course, I’m of the opinion that Ciri should just chuck him into the sun, but she seems to have some empathy for him.” Yen pulls a face. “She’s more forgiving than I am, or you for that matter. Must have gotten that from _Nenneke_.”

He knows that she’s talking about how Ciri had forged a very tenuous truce with her father Emhyr rather than cutting him out of her life completely like both he and Yen would have preferred, but he doesn't want to beat that dead horse right now. Neither does Yen apparently, as she shakes her head and focuses on him again.

“How are you feeling?”

“Well, about as well as a witcher taking on a higher vampire by himself can expect.” Geralt rubbed his neck, grimacing. “The vampire himself is the wine cellar now, about as safe as he can be.”

“Yes, I took the opportunity to look in and put down a ward or two. While doing so I noticed his rather...interesting behaviour.” 

“What, cussing you out for keeping him caged? Yelling about us conspiring to keep him from finding out about Rhena being dead?”

“No, nothing of the sort. And I mean _nothing._ Not so much as a hiss. He didn't look like he was even aware of his surroundings.” She paused, twirling a strand of hair around her fingers, frowning. “Geralt. Usually reading a mind is...difficult, unless you know them well. However, this vampire is like an open book. And the pages are on _fire.”_

Oh. Oh, he doesn't like the sound of that. “That’s...not good?”

“No, it’s not. And if we want to rehabilitate this horribly dangerous creature rather than shooting him into the sun, him being catatonic will be a bit of a stumbling block.”

“Yeah I bet-wait, ‘we’?”

“Oh, you didn't hear?” She said sardonically. “I’ve decided to go into the medical field, specifically curing lunatics, solely in the interest of knowledge. It has nothing to do with Ciri asking me to help, or wanting to be around to prevent him mauling you again. The scars you have are sexy enough, I don’t think I can handle another.”

Geralt grinned at her. “Love you too Yen.”

She chuckled softly, then stood. “Well, I’m going to make myself useful with healing the other patients around here. Thought I’d check on you first; and make sure you stay here and rest. I don’t want what little good I’ve done to be _undone._ ”

“Yes ma’am.” He waited for her to walk by, and snagged her. 

She huffed in amusement and happily went along, allowing herself to be reeled in. It felt wonderful to have her slim body pressed against him, even if he knows he doesn't have the blood supply to do anything more than nuzzling into her raven hair. She knows he doesn't, but she’s more than content to be held and let him drop a few kisses on her neck. She’ll never admit it to anyone but him that she’d been...well, _worried_ , when Ciri had told her Geralt had been hurt in the middle of hefting some of her bags. She _knew_ she shouldn't have let him out of her sight. Her witcher was a magnet for trouble, no matter how eager he seemned to retire _something_ had to happen to pull him out of it and away from her. Damn contracts. Damn scheming nobles. Damn _vampire._ She traced the scabs on his neck with a finger, briefly imagining frying that rabid bat in the basement to feel better, and while Geralt couldn't read minds like her, he didn't really _need_ to here. 

“I’m okay Yen.” He said softly. 

She hummed thoughtfully and let the wound alone in favor of settling in more firmly against his side. “You attract the worst kind of attention.”

“No argument there.” He sighed tiredly. 

“There does seem to be a small silver lining to it though.” She mused. “This estate is lovely; and I can see you’ve put people here to work making it even better.”

“Thanks.” She can feel the slight hint of nervousness in him. “Main place is getting a new coat of paint. And...Regis said he’d help with the garden. Just finished the stables-”

“Yes.”

He blinked at her in surprise. “Yes?”

“Yes, I’ll stay here. With you.” She paused, thinking. “...If _I_ get to choose the color for the paint. You’ve a terrible taste in colors.”

He’s struggling not to beam like an idiot, not that it does much. She can feel how happy he is. “Don’t you only wear black?” 

She huffed in mock-offense, shoving him off. He let himself be shoved so he could lay down on the obscenely soft mattress, looking up at her with a deeply fond look in his eyes. “I’m glad you decided to come. Thought you might…”

“What, despise trailing after you to be put away in your house like a happy homemaker? I admit, the thought _did_ cross my mind. It was almost immediately followed by the uncomfortable kind of self awareness that I was being cowardly.”

Geralt gave her an incredulous look. “Cowardly? Have you met Yen? Terrifyingly powerful sorceress that makes even barbarians quiver in their boots?”

She slapped his shoulder lightly. “Flatterer. But yes, it’s a worse kind of cowardly to refuse to admit that I _do_ want to settle in a gorgeous estate with the man I love.”

His eyes widened, and she can practically _hear_ the ringing, clear note of _love_ echoing in his heart and mind. Maybe some people thought that mind-reading was a horrid practice only for traipsing through people’s brains for secrets, the worst kind of eavesdropping taken to an extreme. To be fair, that’s mostly what it was used for. But with Geralt he could have resisted and she wouldn’t have pried, but he _lets_ her in to see what he-as an emotionally stunted witcher-can’t actually say out loud. 

She gives him a fond smile and trails her fingertips over his temple. “Rest, for now. I’ll see you later.”

He nods happily, burrowing into the covers, and he’s back asleep in moments. She likes that he’s always quick to fall asleep when he knows she’s around, a sign that he feels safe. She leaves him to to it-looking so damned adorable that she was tempted to join him-and wandered off to take stock of everything. From what Ciri’d told her he’d been fighting a battle on multiple fronts, from assassins to long-lost heirs to plots to take over Toussaint. He’s not built for intrigue, but _she_ is. She’s lived and breathed plots and machinations, and she’s frowning as she considers all the information she’d been given so far. 

She must admit, the setup-before Geralt had come in like a bull in a china shop to ruin it-was quite clever. As the firstborn, Syanna was a legitimate heir to the throne, one that would be difficult to dispute once she was on it. The few who had the clout to oppose it and the knowledge that she was born under the sign of the black sun had been killed. Any objections from the peasants or nobles about the death of their beloved ruler would be quelled by a secret police of mutants. Ciri would have of course raised objections-as they’d somehow istilled good morals into her, despite neither of them being a good example of such _at all-_ but she would have had difficulty getting support for it while the north was still a huge drain on Nilfgaard. Probably would have still bullied her way through it, knowing her, but Syanna didn't; she’d planned for a normal monarch who was coldly logical like her father via blood (and _only_ by blood, it had given her a vicious sense of satisfaction when working with him to find that she’d inherited nothing whatsoever from the bastard). And, objectively, the plan was solid.

...Save for one thing.

Using an unstable demigod as an assassin was...a bad idea _on so many levels._ The part of her that could scheme with the best of them was offended just on principle. It was exactly as Ciri had muttered, ‘like using a bomb for sniping’. Syanna was obviously an accomplished hansa leader, with all the scheming and organizational skills that required. With the connections and money she had she could have hired _anyone_ to take those men out- Hell, she’d’ve had her pick of the litter when it came to assassins. Granted, she might have had to scale back on some of the props and the locations-few assassins could snatch someone from a party without notice-but damn it, _she_ would have certainly done so if it meant that the only other option was employing a creature that could just as easily shred the knights, the houses they were in, and _everything and anything else_ if the plan went the least bit wrong. Granted, she’d apparently had a cat witcher in her back pocket to kill him once he stopped being useful, but she doubted he’d have been much help in the middle of Dettlaff going on a rampage, as he’d been taken out easily enough by Regis. Either she’d underestimated the capability that higher vampires had for destruction-doubtful, she’d known one personally-or, and this was a disturbing thought, she didn't _care_ if he carved a swathe of destruction. Hell, it might even improve her odds if she took over on a platform around defending the citizens from a creature that killed dozens in a rampage. If she painted herself as a saviour and protector...damn it, it’s ruthless, but it would _work_. 

Her jaw tightens, and she hopes this bitch is found because if that’s the case, she’s _dangerous._ No one has had any luck so far though, and that’s the other reason Ciri’s picked her up besides helping with the basketcase of a vampire-

_-she_ **_really_ ** _hadn't liked what she’d seen behind those vacant blue eyes. It’s like what she’d seen when Geralt had nightmares about the trials, blind, all-consuming terror that froze everything, and she’s pretty sure this isn't a typical reaction to the ‘death’ of a lover-_

-and while he needs help, _obviously,_ he’ll keep. She needs to find this bitch, and fast; before she sends assassins to the estate again. Or after Damien, for that matter; he wasn't as well-protected as her witcher. Hopefully the failed assasination yesterday had given her pause enough that she would lay off attacking them for a bit while she planned her next move. In the meantime, Yen could do some planning of her own. First though, she was going to check on the injured; a spot of healing wouldn't go amiss, even if she was very much overqualified to play nurse. She knew Geralt; if one of these people died because of what happened last night he’d never forgive himself, and she needed to heal the wounds enough so that chances of life-threatening infections were low. 

The people here weren’t like up north; magic was seen as less heretical and more everyday if still awe-inspiring, and were happy to line up for her to pass her magic over their wounds. Thankfully most were bruises, twisted ankles, burns, and other things of that nature; the kind of injuries people got when a large crowd panicked and ran in all directions. A few did have claw marks, and one poor bastard had five deep lines across his ribs where a fleder had tried to grab him and missed. He practically wept with relief when she got them to close under her hand, thanking her profusely. As much as she hated that he’d wrinkled her dress by clinging to it and blubbering, she understands; death via blood poisoning is probably one of the worst ways to go. 

Once she’d finished here, one of the staff informed her that the casualty who had it the worst was in the main house under the doctor’s close supervision, and after she’d finished turning down their offers of rutabagas and apples and cheese (well, a little bit of the last one-she _loved_ Camembert) she headed back up. In the room that had previously held Dettlaff she could see two men, one on his stomach swathed in bandages, picking morosely at his lunch, and the other passed out on the floor in a maelstrom of papers. He’s deep asleep, drooling on some of them, but he doesn't need to be awake to make his introductions. Ciri had already told her that Regis was the on-site doctor to the estate, though right now he’s more like a hibernating bat. A very haggard bat, in fact; this is a man in need of coffee. She fetches a small bag of beans from her dressing room, able to do so easily. Ciri’s footmen had already set everything up for her just the way she liked it, which made everything so much easier to find. She smiles fondly at her daughter’s attention to such a small detail of her liking to have her megascope on the left side of the room, and heads down to the kitchen. 

A thin, elderly woman is working on assembling a midday snack, and she hefts the small bag of beans. “Excuse me, but do you have a grinder…?”

The old woman looks at the bag and smiles. “Is that coffee?”

She nods, and the woman turns out to be _Lady_ Marlene de Trastamara _,_ because she pulls out a silver set to brew the coffee. She’d brought it over from her ruined estate, and Yen listened with a sort of bemused fondness to the tale of how Geralt had lifted her curse and then of _course_ offered her a place to stay. By the time she’s done talking, Marlene has made a small tray of snacks and breakfast-well, lunch-for Regis, and coffee for everyone. Thus armed, Yen and Marlene returned to the sickroom, the former waving a hand to clear the floor of paper so the latter can actually make her way in. Marlene set everything up while Yen worked on waking Regis up, floating a cup of coffee near his nose. The rather beaky appendage twitched a few times before he blinked awake, looking blankly at the cup hovering in front of him. He took it with a bemused look, which changed to pleasure as he took a leisurely sip.

“To whom do I owe the pleasure?” Regis said, smiling a closed-lip smile up at her from the floor.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg. I assume you’re the famous Regis?” She smiled back. 

“Well, I don’t know about famous. Infamous, perhaps.” Regis stood and bowed elegantly. “It is a pleasure to meet the most magnificent Yennefer, of whom Geralt has spoken at length.” 

“All good things, I hope.”

He makes a non-committal hum, a small smile hovering on his lips and she huffs in amusement, leaving him to his coffee and lunch while she looks over the other man in the room. The poor fellow looks miserable, obviously in a good deal of pain. Seeing as how most of his shoulder and part of his arm is swathed in bandages, she can guess why. 

“Your name?” She says, hovering her hand just over the mass of bandages.

“Barnabas-Basil Foulty, madam. I-oh, that’s…” He sighed as her magic got to work. “That feels _lovely_.”

“Mmm, I expect so. I can only repair so much at a time, but this should help speed things up, and protect you from infection.” 

“You are most kind.” He said softly, and fell asleep in the middle of it. Not that it's surprising that he does, probably exhausted from pain and stress. That done, she wanders out to the dining room, which...is sans dining table. Odd. Well, there are benches, she can at least sit down and enjoy her coffee. 

Regis is also enjoying his coffee, but the food is only picked at, his face that of a man deep in thought. Yen lets him be for a bit until he’s gotten at least a cup in him before asking. “What were you researching?”

He blinks out of thought. “Oh, the papers that were found in the lab that Geralt unearthed. You were the one to direct him to it, I believe.”

“Mmm, yes. I like to stay abreast of the latest discoveries in the fields of magic and to a lesser degree, alchemy. There’s been a recent resurgence of interest in witcher mutations, mostly stemming from some very mysterious alchemist.” She tapped her fingers on the wood, frowning. “Of course, there’s always a periodic uptick in curiosity, but it usually dies down quickly, since the secrets of witchers were kept very close to their chests and are now either lost or inaccessible. This one though...he's difficult to pin down, as he’s been under multiple aliases, but I’ve figured out he’s been very quietly consulting with others in the field for years and the descriptions matched. Lately, he’d shown interest in the location of a secondary lab for Thomas Morue, which had been built with the assistance of a stonemason and a mage. The mage was still alive. Or _was.”_

Regis’ eyes widened. “...Was?”

“Dead. his study was lit on fire, everything destroyed. Thankfully _after_ I visited him and he gave me a map to the location.” She said. “I thought it prudent to send Geralt to get the lab first, in case Thomas had actually figured out witcher mutations and it wasn't another dead end. The mutations could be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“Sensible.” Regis murmured. “But it seems the map was unneeded for your alchemist, Geralt said it was discovered by someone else before he arrived.”

“And that’s why the study was burned, I think. He already knew where it was, but he was making sure no one else did.” She paused. “What I want to know is _how_ , though. Thomas guarded his secrets closely. He didn't have assistants, didn’t publish _any_ of his work regarding his studies into witcher mutations, and the only person who knew the whereabouts of the lab was the long-deceased mason and the more recently-deceased mage.”

Regis steepled his fingers, thinking. “Geralt...said that there was an enemy of Dettlaff. A witcher. He assisted Thomas in gathering the required ingredients for his experiments, like Dettlaff’s blood. He would know of its location.”

“Hmm. That _would_ make sense. Other than a mage, he’d live long enough for this alchemist to find him, though of course, no one would notice _him_ going missing.”

“Ah, yes. As Geralt is fond of saying, ‘no witcher dies in his bed.’ Though I think Geralt is aspiring to be the first.” The doctor smiles fondly.

_At the rate he’s going, I’ll believe it when I see it._ Yen thought to herself. “But back to the subject at hand- Have you found anything in the research?”

At this, Regis looks nervous. “We... _did_ discard the idea of a witcher on a crusade against my species being behind the plot as soon as we discovered Syanna’s involvement and her aspirations to reclaim the throne. However, we may wish to revive the bit about a crusade.”

Yen cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? What makes you say that?”

Regis got up, went back into the room, and came to her with a sheaf of papers. “This is the research that Geralt was able to take from the lab. It details the process that he took in his...experiments on his son. Not enough to be reproduced but the rest of the details may have been in the ransacked lab.”

“Or Thomas’ lab at his home. It was discovered oh...two, three years ago by some treasure hunter I believe. They sold some of the findings to the highest bidder.” She murmured, looking them over.

“Perhaps. But more worryingly, it details experiments on a... _sample_ of higher vampire tissue. Specifically, venom glands.”

She jerked her head up from the papers. “ _Venom-_ oh no, I have a bad feeling about that.”

“It’s about as bad as you think. He was, after much experimentation, able to culture the tissue and manufacture enough venom to artificially reproduce it.” Regis looked grim. “In fact, the day that cat witcher came to kill Dettlaff...I found a vial of it in his room.”

Yen’s eyes widened. “Do you think…?”

“I’m quite sure,” Regis said softly, looking deeply worried. “It was intended to be used on him; to tie up the last loose end in Syanna’s plan.”

She frowned. “Worrying as that might be, one vial is not proof positive of a crusade.”

“Perhaps. But Gaetan was altered by the machine in Thomas’ lab, just like his son had. His son, in fact, nearly killed me with a bite. Gaetan has the same teeth; surely he could have simply mauled Dettlaff to kill him. Why the vial?”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Because it’s cleaner? Quicker? _Quieter?_ I’m quite doubtful that this is evidence of a conspiracy to genocide your race-”

She paused. “Unless...oh no.”

Regis looks, if anything, more worried. “Please tell me I’m being paranoid?”

“I’m afraid you just might have reason to be paranoid.” She sighs resignedly. “Because I think I can see her logic. If _I_ was a ruthless scheming bitch that killed a beloved ruler to take the throne and wanted to pacify the populace what would I do? Give them an _enemy._ Nothing unites people like a ruler that wants to protect them from the monsters in their midst. No offense. _”_

“None taken.” He says numbly. 

He doesn’t look good; can vampires _get_ nauseous? Yen’s not sure if she wants to find out, and rests a hand on his arm in what she hopes is a reassuring way. “However, even if she _is_ planning such a thing, it can only go into effect if she’s able to take power, and that requires the removal of her sister. Anna is currently as safe as she can possibly be; and while she’s with Ciri, we can hunt her down. In fact, that is why Ciri found me and brought me here; I’m one of the few mages that can find a person through sympathetic magic. I will do everything that I can to find her.”

Regis takes a steadying breath. “I...thank you, Lady Yennefer. I’m glad that your daughter brought you in, this has been quite...overwhelming.”

“Hmm, quite the understatement there.” She says, just a touch amused. Regis manages to give her a small smile, looking slightly less panicked, and she turns her attention to the papers again. “As for the experiments...hm. You said Gaetan had been altered like Thomas’ son has?”

“He has, yes.”

“Well... let's hope it doesn't give them your habit of avoiding detection. Let’s test the tracking with...what was the name again? For the man Geralt found in the lab.”

Regis looked...well, she’s not sure if ‘shifty’ is quite the word, but he seems to know something she doesn't, and she’s suspicious. “Ah...Jerome. Though lately, I’ve been calling him by far more... _colorful_ descriptors.”

She arched an eyebrow at him but he didn’t elaborate, just lead her to the room adjacent to his and Barnabas-Basil’s; the one in front of the kitchens. The man in question was strapped down to his cot, and looking none too pleased about it. He eyed them both with a curl to his lips and a belligerent gleam in his eyes. 

“Ah, it’s the damn turnip-faced bastard again.” He snarled. “I gotta say, I’ve only met one other of your species, but...aren’t you lot immortal? Or did you _choose_ to look like my uncle Jean-Pierre after a bender, a buggering, and a three-day dip in the horse tank?”

Next to her Regis mutters something in what might be vampiric, and Jerome bares his teeth at him. “Fuckstick, I know batty-talk, you take that back!”

Well, isn't this just lovely. She ignores them both to snip off a bit of the stubbly hair over his most _strenuous_ objections, though the rather creative bit about ‘dried up cunt’ gets her attention. “You do know that I’m a sorceress, don’t you?”

“Yeah, and-”

“-And I’ve _no_ objections to teleporting your cock to the bottom of the ocean.”

He eyes her. “...You can’t do that. That’s not a thing.”

“Do you want to find out?”

He waffles for a bit, but one look into her steely eyes sends him shrinking away into the cot. “...No.”

“Good boy.” She says sardonically and takes the hair to her room where she has a map of Toussaint set up. She placed the hair in a bowl, then set up a small magic circle around it. The map got a metal frame put over it that supported a plumb line, the stone at the end a black, metallic color. Regis inspected it curiously, as nosey as a cat, and she had to shoo him out of the way when the spell started. It’s a delicate procedure, like holding onto lines of spider silk trying not to have them break while giving gentle tugs on the connection between the lodestone, the hair, and the man downstairs.

The stone shivers, trying to focus, but the connection is too tenuous for it to lock. “Damn it.”

“Ah, so I guess I should re-estimate the percentage of vampire in him.” Regis hmms. “And I can assume it won’t work on the cat witcher either.”

“It could if I have the _time.”_ She said, frustrated. “But we can’t spare it. Syanna isn’t likely to give me a week to fiddle with this damn thing, and by then that fleshy sample will be too degraded to be of any use. Hair is better because it’s stable; blood is useless by the time it dries, and flesh can only keep fresh for so long.”

Regis sighed. “A pity. Well, at least I know I can study it and not worry about destroying it too much to be of any use to you.”

Yen rubbed her temples as they head back down, trying her damndest to figure out another way of finding that woman. She could ask if Anna had anything of her sister, but even if they were lucky enough to have something as stable as hair that tended to become useless the older it was, and Anna hadn't seen her sister since they were both very young. Perhaps she could find something more recent at the estate she’d fled; she may be smart enough to know she could be tracked via personal items, but she can’t have gotten _everything._

“Were you able to find anything of hers at the estate?”

Regis hummed thoughtfully. “Well, some papers-unused-a quill, other odds and ends.”

“Hairbrush? Makeup? I need something that would have had prolonged contact with her that she might have left something of herself on, like hair.”

He frowned, thinking. “I’m afraid most things left were impersonal items she would have little connection to, things lent to her by the owner of the estate.”

“Damn. Too tenuous a connection.”

“Well, there is a music box.” He said, obviously reaching. “A gift from Dettlaff to her that she’d left behind when she abandoned him. It was the only thing she left, and as it’s the one personal effect he has of her he’s kept it all these years. Would that-?”

“No, too old, and I doubt she left a lock of her hair in…” She paused. “Regis. A thought just occurred to me.”

“Yes?”

“Your kind is untraceable by magical means, correct?”

“True, we cannot be seen by scrying either, due to our partially ethereal nature. I’ve studied-”

“Mind on topic Regis. So, the question is, how did she know where he was to send him the order to come to Toussaint to play the part of cat’s paw?”

Regis paused, understanding slowly creeping in. “...A most _excellent_ question, Lady Yennefer.”

She made a pleased hum. “Now, where’s the box?”

He leads her to the room that had previously held the other vampire, sliding out a crate from under Basil’s cot. It held an assortment of woodcarving tools, some spare clothes, his frock coat, and the little odds and ends most anyone carried about in their pockets. The star of it, though, is the music box; a pretty thing, but not all that out of the ordinary. Looked quite a lot like most boxes, to be honest, and she flips the catch. Nothing unusual here...damn, it’s a shame, but she’ll have to take it apart. She rips off the satin lining and-yes, here it is, burned into the wood.

“Well, that’s one way to track the untraceable. A locating charm, onto the one thing he’d never part with. Very clever.” She smiled smugly. “Unfortunately for her, it goes _both_ ways.”

Regis’ voice lifted with hope. “Do you think-?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s got the little setup for finding him wherever _she_ is, Syanna won’t chance losing track of someone this dangerous.” She hefted the box. “Regis, would you like to join me in my study again?”

He gave her a bow with an elaborate flourish. “It would be my honor, Lady Yennefer.”

He practically skipped with glee in front of her as she followed at a more dignified pace, and she almost walked into Regis’ back when he stopped abruptly.

“How did you-” Regis starts, and she peers over his shoulder to see the first patient, one foot out the door, staring at them. 

There’s a moment of held breath, and then he bolts. Yen and Regis run after him, the latter muttering very unkind words about making sure the next dose of sedative was in suppository form, trying to head him off as he lopes his way to the stables. She knows that he’s looking for a getaway ride, but the stables are empty save one horse: Roach. 

The poor bastard.

There was an almighty neigh, and their target was flung out of the stables, falling on the dirt, the breath knocked out of him. He wallowed for a bit but recovered quickly, spying them almost immediately. He bared his teeth at them. “Fuck you, won’t let you do no more experiments, no more _needles.”_

Lovely, another crazy. Why did Geralt insist on taking in strays? Regis cautiously approached, palms up in a non-threatening gesture. “Calm down my good man, no experiments of any kind. We-”

“Strapped me down, took my hair-not really convincing. What more does he fucking want to do to me, huh? Lobotomize me? Yeah, then I’ll be the best goddamn son pappy could ask for, can’t talk back if I’m too busy drooling on myself ‘n shittin’ my drawers.” He skitters to the side, muttering to himself all the while, and Regis watches him go warily. 

Yen could guess that the doctor is really reluctant to get close to the man who took a chunk out of him, and she sighed, getting a spell ready. That, of course, was the man’s cue to sprint away and he’s surprisingly fast for someone who looked like a skinny cadaver covered in lesions. It’s not a pretty sight, especially as he’s only wearing a thin tunic that went just to mid-thigh. There was a lot of...exposure. At least she isn't getting the full-frontal, which is more than she can say for the poor staff. There’s a lot of yelling, looks of disgust, and giggles from some children. Yen grimaced and prepared to throw a spell at his feet, and hopes he won’t slough off a few layers of skin when he slaps his face into the stone after getting paralyzed. 

Turns out her spells are unneeded, however.

“ _Where_ do you think you’re going?” 

He skids to a stop, his arms windmilling frantically to avoid running into an irate Marlene, who’s in a stained apron and looking about as intimidating as a matronly figure can be. Which, to the mutated witcher, is apparently more terrifying than the vampire and sorceress behind him.

“I was just...yanno...going for a walk?”

“You’ll be walking your arse back to bed _now,_ you ridiculous man; and stop terrorizing these poor people!” She pointed her ladle at the house. “You haven't even had your lunch _,_ and what on _earth_ are you wearing?”

He frowns in confusion, looking down at himself, and it’s at this moment he seems to realize that he’s three-quarters of the way to streaking naked through a populated estate. 

“Shit, my prick’s hanging out-” He tries tugging the tunic down, but it does...well, nothing. 

Marlene sighs and lends him the apron-which he wraps around his lower half like a bizarre kilt-but at least everyone’s eyes are spared. She leads him along, and he seems to have completely forgotten about his escape attempt and his pursuers, not noticing Yen or Regis at all as he walks past them back into the house. He seems as meek as a lamb now, looking deeply embarrassed, and even sits down on the cot he’d managed to escape from. Now that the covers are off she can see the chains had been removed from the bed and the bed shifted; the wall where it _had_ been blackened by fire. Likely the staff had been forced to remove the chain to move him out of harm's way. The regular rope and leather cord that _had_ been keeping him contained obviously hadn't stood much chance. From the looks of it he’d broken one keeping his arm down, and then just undid the rest.

Regis looks embarrassed. “Ah, in the chaos yesterday, I didn't think to-”

“Regis, considering what happened yesterday you can be forgiven for this one thing,” Yen said. “Just be glad Roach is such a one-person horse.”

Regis huffs a laugh, and they both watch Marlene effortlessly handle their runaway, handing him a change of loose clothes and occupying him with a bowl of what he called ‘proper grits’. She lets him be and wanders over to them.

“Very neatly done Marlene, I’m impressed,” Regis said, thoroughly amused.

“Wrangling small, energetic children will teach you many skills, master Regis.” She said, smiling, then sobered. “I know I’ve no place to tell you what needs to be done doctor, but probably lay off the restraints. What he says when he’s lucid gives me the impression that they remind him of...certain things.”

She says this in a very quiet tone of voice, but Yen can’t help but see Jerome hesitate over his bowl. He resumes eating almost right away, but he curls over it like a dog with a bone, flicking paranoid eyes over the room. Regis noticed it too, and nods, going to address the man.

“I’m afraid we’ve gotten on the wrong foot.” He says gently. “I am Regis. I’ve been acting as your physician for the last few days after my friend found you in dire straits. I was forced to restrain you as you had attempted to take a chunk out of my arm, in the interest of my safety and that of others. However, seeing as you are as lucid as can be expected, I would be happy not to put you back in those restraints if you don’t feel the need to try to rip my arm off again.”

Jerome blinked. “What?”

“Don’t bite people and we won’t put you into a straitjacket,” Yen explains.

“Well, why didn't you say so.” He slurps the last of the grits-deliberately making a lot of noise, Yen can see Regis twitch-then sets it down. “I’ll just kick you in the meat ‘n veg if you try jabbing a needle in my dick. Know vamps feel a ball tap just like anyone else.”

“...Fair enough,” Regis says after a moment, trading looks with Yen. 

She stepped forward to save the doctor from this mess of a conversation. “No experiments, no surgeries, and no needles, in your dick or anywhere else. The hair I collected was just to determine how... _alterd_ you are.” 

Which, strictly speaking, wasn't untrue. She didn't feel like going into the reason as to _why_ they wanted to know. “Geralt was the one that found you still alive, and decided to bring you here on account he likes to take in wayward strays.”

Jerome snorts. “Nice of ‘em. What’s the _real_ reason, oh monochrome mage?”

“That _is_ the real reason. Honestly, I don’t care if you believe me or not, I’ve bigger concerns.” She said, waving her hand dismissively. “Namely that you don’t go running off again. Will you at least _try_ to stay here until you’ve completely healed? You look like a burn victim.” 

He scratched at a scab. “Not like I could get any uglier.”

“Might even be an improvement.” Drawled a voice behind them. Yen turned to see Geralt up and about, plate in hand. He’d apparently come slouching out for lunch, woken by hunger.

He turned to her. “I’ll take him off your hands for a while.”

She nodded and left him to it. Maybe he’d have more luck convincing the man they meant him no harm, and she left to go to her study, Regis following behind. With any luck, they’d have this bitch in jail by tonight and her little organization in shambles. And then they’d _finally_ get to enjoy wine on his estate like his sweet letter had haltingly offered.


	21. Memory of a dream

* * *

“What to do, to do, oh-”

“I suggest soup.”

“Blech, he’ll make a most bitter stock.”

“I’da thought-” He slurred, “That'd make a rather  _ meaty  _ one.”

A pause.

“Oho, he  _ lives.  _ And his tongue is intact!”

“Shouldn't have given it back. Such a clever little thing would have had better uses  _ elsewhere.” _

He makes an attempt at a laugh-namely, an  _ attempt- _ trying to orient himself while his eyelids are still closed. The sun was burning through them, giving him a  _ splitting  _ headache, meaning it was at least high noon. He was laying in what felt like gluey mud, which had-to his revulsion-made its way into the crevices of his armor. He feels like death warmed over, his shoulder is throbbing, joining the pounding in his head, but he’s  _ alive _ , which is more than he expected given the events of last night. He rolls over, and finally opens his eyes.

...And wishes he hadn't.

“Morning.” He says slowly. “You all are looking...different.”

The three lovely visions are gone, replaced by-oooo, he’s not sure any adverb he’s got will do them justice. 

“You’ve a gift for the obvious, along with your  _ wit.”  _ The one with the...compound eye hissed. “But we were not referring to  _ you.” _

She points to the ground next to him, and the poor bastard he’d met last night is still there. Well, relatively. Physically, sure, but from the vacant look on his face, mentally…well.

“ ‘es a bit skinny for soup.” He mumbled. “Low ‘n slow I guess. I recommend a lotta garlic.”

The biggest one chortled, her, uh,  _ generous  _ figure undulating in all sorts of horrifying ways. He had to close his eyes for a bit. “Fitting, for a vampire. Shall we add silver shavings for garnish?”

He does a double-take, looking at the guy. “W-you telling me that’s a  _ true-” _

“Well it’s obviously not a plumard.” The third hissed from behind her veil, unamused. “Our mother, in her  _ arrogance,  _ chose that creature to leash to her will. One of the strongest beasts in creation for her to sup on,  _ draw  _ from. We did not know of the extent of her lust for power until we unleashed him.”

_ Who’s this ‘we business? Was I crawling through corpses ‘n pissing myself just for fun?  _ He strangles those thoughts, he’s not going to anger these...things when he’s feeling like a piece of stretched taffy from his ordeal last night. That backlash of magic had really messed with him. 

“And here he lies,” The first speaker muses. “For  _ now.” _

Jerome looked at them. “What do you mean for now?”

“He will wake eventually.” The largest says, tapping thoughtfully on her strapping thigh. “He was driven to heights of madness so great it exhausted him. He’s slumbering for now.”

The subject of their discussion was staring unfocused at the sky and hadn’t blinked. To be honest, he wouldn't call...whatever this was sleep. He’s unpleasantly reminded of one of the other kids that had come out of the trial with that glazed look, wasting away days later because he wouldn't wake from it to eat or drink. 

“No telling when he’ll wake.” Murmurs the veiled one. “And when he does he’ll be that rabid beast again, most like.”

“You can’t just…” He waves a hand. “Turn him into a frog? He’d be in good company here.”

“Bah, we  _ could  _ have done any number of things to him. We could have burnt him to a crisp. Or perhaps fed him to drowners. But now?” The biggest one makes an exasperated noise. “I’m sure you felt it as well as us. The backlash of wrath, of  _ power.” _

“At least you’re still standing.” He wallowed, trying to sit up. “I feel like an overcooked noodle.”

They ignored him. “I still say soup of him.” The biggest one insisted.

“We couldn't possibly eat it. His vitality is too foreign to us for it to be anything  _ but  _ soup. Nasty soup, as it is. His kind tastes worse than ghouls.” The veiled one sneered.

“Well, we must find something to get rid of him. We’re far too weak to fight him, won’t be strong enough for decades.” 

“ ‘ell just keep coming back. Higher vamps-true ones-they recover from even a pyre in just a few years.” Jerome mumbled. “Takes magical fire to glass them-they take a lot longer to come back from that,  _ if  _ they do. Some don’t.”

He’s not really sure why he’s joining this conversation, but he feels it’s probably in his own best interest-and those for miles around-that this vampire doesn't pop back up to go on a rampage. Not like he’s got much to offer; his shoulder is so fucked he won’t be holding a silver sword any time soon, and he’s too weak to use enough igni to fix this problem.

“Then what do you suggest, hmm?” The veiled on hisses, holding up a necklace of- “We’re all  _ ears.” _

He doesn't shudder, but he does look away, instead looking at the vampire next to him.  _ Dettlaff.  _ They’d shook hands, which was just weird, a vampire and witcher-that just didn't...happen. Vampires killed them or fled from them. Well, they didn't fetch up at the center of some horrible witch cult either, looking into the sky with that miles-away look he’d seen on his own horrid face after the trials that left little cat-eyes looking back. What if he’d hadnt had the other witchers there with words and meditation-fuck, he’d be a mess, an absolute insane mess, just like this poor fucker. He shudders this time and rubs his hands over his face so he can’t see those damned empty eyes. What he’d give to forget the trials so they wouldn't keep getting remembered at the  _ worst _ times. They said it would fade with time but he’s been years on the path-

_ Forget- _

_ Forget. _

He pauses. “How...much power do you have?”

“Not enough to turn him into glass, no. Fire is always the most hungry of magics.”

“Don't I know it-” He mumbled. “But. Can you...can you make him forget? Forget...what your mother put him through. What’s driving him mad.”

They paused, trading glances amongst themselves. He feels there's a whispered conversation amongst themselves in a register just out of hearing, and it’s the veiled one that reaches for the vampire.

“Not completely.” She hisses through the red fabric, and he doesn't want to know what’s under it. “Never completely.”

“But we can make him dream.” The biggest one murmurs, her mutated hand hovering over him. “Faded from his waking mind.”

“Memory to a dream.” The last one twitches forward, movement birdlike, quick. 

The vampire is at the center of them now, and he’s left outside of this little circle-but not for long.

“With some  _ assistance _ -” She hisses, grabbing onto him, and he jerks.

“Wh-” 

And that’s all he’s able to get out before he’s dragged out of his own head and into blackness-

_ Again- _

-And now he’s heading into the black again, because there aren't witches here. No witches to leave them both in the swamp, waking up to a vampire shaking and lost, looking at him helpless and glazed but  _ awake- _

_ “P-please d-don’t hurt me.” _

_ “...Not gonna hurt you.” _

_ “But...you’re a witcher.” _

_ “I’m a pile of raw nerves what I am right now. Probably won’t even break a sweat killin’ me.” _

_ “...I don’t think I can kill anything right now. I...I think I’ll vomit if I move.” _

_ “Join the club.” _

_ They’d had to help each other out of there, leaning on each other and eating frogs legs, and then they just...kept going, together. Because nothing bonded you like swamp water and frog’s legs- _

-But he’s gotta do  _ something.  _ Because he needs to wake up again, and that black ‘n white mage won’t be able to do jack shit for this, not like last time. No, it’ll be like after the shop, after Tasar and Dalia; another rampage, another collapse. Needed to help him surface from under the madness, give him a little lifeline to pull on, lead him back to the land of the living.

“Are you sure about this.” The man says behind him.

“Done it before.” He says, walking down the cellar stairs. “He’ll be too tired to do much when he wakes, but keep the swords up. Just in case.”

A pause. “...How long did you two know each other?”

“More ‘n a decade. Almost two. Didn’t count the years.” He’s not sure, really, but it certainly felt like a lifetime. “Long enough to know him well, help him through this once or twice.”

He pauses at the door to look back at the other man. He was just as scarred and fucked-up looking as any other, though he’s at least easier on the eyes than yours truly. The only difference is he’s a weird albino, something to do with those extra trials, he’d said.  _ Extra trials. Holy tits, a second round, poor bastard- _

That had been what convinced him that Geralt wasn't going to poke and prod at him, actually. He’d sat down next to him on the cot, ploughing his way through lunch, while he’d eyed him from the far end of the cot. He’d finished his spread, and then just stared levelly at him while he snarled and snapped about needles until he’d trailed off. Geralt kept his bearing-something he never managed to do-as patient as his old training instructors hadn't been, speaking quietly when he’d finally shut up.

“I had to go through the trials twice.” He’d said lowly. “Second time bleached my hair and gave me night sweats and strange visions. Can’t say if it was as bad as the lab, but it was bad enough that I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.”

_ That  _ had given him pause. “...Lemme see.”

Geralt pulled up his sleeves, because he knew what he meant-they  _ all  _ knew what that question meant-to show him the scar. The first  _ witcher  _ scar.

There’s two. The first is a little slit, same as his. The second is twisted and knotty and horrible. He presses his thumb into it a little, and while the other man doesn't flinch he can feel him tense.

“What’d they say, then. To justify it.” He’s still holding on, staring down at the scars. “Did they say it was for the better. To make you better.”

“They said it was necessary.”

“Necessary monsters.” He lets him go. No need to keep poking and prodding  _ him.  _

There’s an awkward silence for a bit, and he tries again. “Why...why’d you pick me up? No offense, but I think I’d prefer you’d used that sword to put me out of my misery when you found me.”

Geralt nods, just acknowledging the statement. They were all blase about the cold fact that they’d find others hanging sometimes; just a thing that happened, when you got put through what they did. Sometimes the worst cases needed others to help haul up the noose. 

“Thought you’d want to die on your own terms. Or live on them. But you should at least get the choice, since it was taken from you.”

That was fair. More than fair. “Thank you.”

Another nod. They’re quiet for a while in their own unpleasant thoughts, before he finally uncurls, sits properly on the bed because he’s not got anyone here looking to turn him into an experiment. At least for  _ now. There’s always someone else out there looking to do what’s necessary, whether his father or the witchers of Kaer Seren. Only the justifications shifted- _

A thought jolts him. “My father. Where-”

“Orlémurs Cemetery.”

He pauses. “A pity. Would have liked to put him there.”

The other witcher flicks his eyes to him, and he knows he didn't cover up his relief, but Geralt doesn't comment. Just moves on to filling him in where he is, an offer to stay as long as he needs-

“This place is  _ yours?”  _ He said incredulously. “But witcher’s can’t  _ own  _ property, not in Toussaint.”

Geralt shrugs. “Guess they can, if the regent gives it to them as a gift for fulfilling a contract.”

“The fuck kinda contract just gets you an estate? Did you have to hunt a goddamn dragon down?”

“No. Something just as dangerous though.” He paused. “...Higher vampire. A true one.”

“Well.” He says awkwardly.  _ How the fuck did you manage on your own, thats suicide-  _ “That’d...do it, huh.”

Geralt gave him a meaningful look. “You would know.”

He frowned. “The fuck that’s supposed to mean?”

The wolf witcher gets up and rummages through a box, pulling up a-

“Here. Found it in your things at the lab.”

He takes the mother of pearl vial, holding it to his chest. “...You know what’s in it, don’t you.”

“And who.” Geralt gave him a half-smile. “Turns out my vampire friend-Regis, the doctor-is friends with  _ your  _ vampire.”

He blinked, taken aback. “Really-? God damn, small world. I mean, vamps are tight-knit little society, but  _ still.” _

“Yeah. Does Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy ring a bell?”

He frowned, thinking hard. “...His lil’ wanna-be scholar buddy when he was a kid? That bastard went and became a blood-guzzling alkie.” 

“He got better.”

“Has he?”

“He’s the doctor that’s been looking after you.”

Well, that’s a pleasant surprise. “Damn, kicked the habit? Well, he certainly looks like a recovering addict. Good for him, Detty really missed the guy. Always wondered what happened to him. They meet up while I was...marinating?”

Geralt nodded, and despite himself Jerome felt a small little flare of happiness. After...after what happened to Tasar and Dalia, Dettlaff had become so withdrawn and depressed; to be fair, so had he (and he feels a painful stab of guilt for it, for going away from him, drawing in-) 

Still, it was encouraging to find that his adopted brother had managed to find a new (old?) friend on his own while he’d been gone. Maybe he’d managed to take care of himself while he’d been sweating and shivering in turns, terrified, hoping if he died here he’d never know what he’d suffered, that he’d go on thinking he’d died a witcher’s death. That he’d move on...maybe find himself a nice bat girl...have some little Dettys...live happy. A little something to cling to among all the terror, the pain, the-

He jerks to the present. There’s a door in front of him, cold iron grating. Not that it would do much good if brother dear wanted to go on another rampage, like he’d done before. Like he’d done just now. 

“Geralt.” He pulls the door open. “If he attacks, don’t hesitate.”

“...You sure.”

“I know what he’s capable of.” He said quietly. “And just how much it would kill him to know if he’d hurt someone.”

“He didn't seem to mind the idea of killing innocents or his friend to get what he wanted last night.”

“He doesn't; not when he’s in the middle of his madness.” He steps into the lion’s-well, bat’s-den, approaching cautiously. “But you know how it is, don’t you?”

Geralt gives him a curious look.

“Under the right delusions, anything’s justified.” He said, crouching down in front of the cage. “From testing witcher mutations on prison inmates to putting you through a second round of trials. If it’s  _ necessary-” _

He can hear the wolf-witcher’s gloves squeak as he curls his hands into fists and he stops; it’s cruel to poke and prod. He continues in a gentler tone. “Last night, he was caught in a delusion full of shaky and hypocritical logic that justified the means.”

“And now?”

“Now…” He looked in, and met a blank stare. “...you know that state you got to in the trials, when you were gone, sunk deep in your own head?”

He can see Geralt nod out the corner of his eye. “You need to lead him out of it. Just like the masters did for us.”

“Yeah, especially because his head isn’t the nicest place to get lost in.” The wolf witcher shifts uncomfortably at that. “ ‘Specially now. You got him restrained. Fucking put him in a magic bubble if need be, but don’t ever put him in restraints. It’d be like if someone threw you on the rack again; that same...feeling.”

“Noted.” Geralt paused, and his voice softened slightly. “...Do you think he’ll be... _ him  _ again, when he wakes? Regis and Dettlaff have gotten close, having him like this is...well, the good doctor has enough on his plate.”

“It’ll take time, but when he comes out of it he’s usually...him again.”

“Usually?”

“He’s not gonna be all hunky-dory, but he’s not going to be going on a rampage either. More screaming and crying.” Jerome paused. “Did he...did he kill anyone?”

“No.” Jerome sagged with relief, letting out a shuddering sigh. They’d had some close calls and one... _ incident _ in the early days that he’d  _ never  _ speak of because it would just end him. Jerome’s not sure if waking up and finding you’d attacked your friend, nearly killing him and  _ everyone else  _ won’t leave him any crazier; it’s damn close to what happened after Tasar and Dalia, the screaming madness he’d gone into.  _ I’ll make them all choke on blood and smoke, everyone in that city will die, will- _

He still had nightmares about that sometimes. Where he hadn’t been quick enough to get him out, and a whole city of bystanders was on the pyre. Where he hadn't been quick enough to dodge the reaching claws, and they’d twisted through his intestines-

-where they’re been nothing left of the vampire that made little carvings out of his leftover fiend horns and listened to him natter on inassently and helped him forget the  _ fucking  _ trials by just being there, endlessely patient and making him feel more human than he’d felt since being taken away from his home. Since he’d come back to his home and had the door shut in his face. Since being spat on day after day after-

It wasn't always the trials that killed.

_ “-Hey now, just let ‘em be, peasants always do that, can’t blame ‘em for hissing like cats at the snake-eyed freak-” _

_ “You are NOT a freak!” _

_ And he’d been (half) joking but Dettlaff hadn’t, and it’s not very eloquent and he’d said it way too loud making two barn cats bolt and a traveling merchant eye him, but it’s just what he needed to hear sometimes; someone standing up for him, standing up  _ **_to_ ** _ him and all that internalized sneering distaste.  _

_ He hadn’t had anything to say to that, a first. _

-and he tells him as much, in his long, roundabout rambling way because he’s never been able to keep his fucking mouth shut, but it comes in handy sometimes. Like when they’d been out on the path and  _ someone  _ had to fill up the hours full of nothing but the sound of sweet, pure,  _ maddenly boring  _ goddamned  **nature** with songs about the maids of vicovaro and wondering if it was technically beastiality if you ploughed a werewolf when they were hairy-

-And it comes in handy now, when his voice has been the thing that’s led Dettlaff out of that dark, dark headspace he falls into after the worst of the fits. He just talks and talks while his brother lies on the floor where Geralt had dumped him after taking him out of the cage. Hours pass. The wolf witcher meditates. He slugs down some tea that was brought down. Eats dinner. Then supper. Then midnight snack. Then three-am piss break because that tea finally hit him-

_ Has to keep going though, has to. Dettlaff had told him once that there was a point down there where nothing could reach, couldn't feel, couldn't hear, nothing. If he sank all the way down he won't come up for air, and he had to keep reminding him that there were people here that he cared for, so he wouldn't- _

-and he’s finally gotten through all the stories and ancedotes that he could think of, even the stupid one about the damn brothel they’d lost the deposit on. He’s tired and his skin feels like it’s burning so he lays on the cold stone floor next to him, letting the chill sooth his sores and keep him awake. He rests for a moment and watches Dettlaff, hoping he hadn’t sunk too far. 

_ This was bad, real bad. The wolf witcher had given him the bare bones of everything to bring him up to speed and oh, the poor poor bastard- _

-“Lot has happened since you’ve been gone.” Geralt had said, scraping his spoon ‘round the bowl for the last of the stew. “Don’t know the details, but he met up with a girl. Human one.”

“...Uh.” He paused. “You know, I love the guy but he’s not real... _ savvy  _ when it comes to that. He hates people, humans the most. I mean, he tolerated a halfling living with him, but only because she was the most disarming lil’ powderpuff you ever met. Left to his own devices he’ll live in a goddamn cave in the middle of the woods sleeping in a pile of lesser vamps stinking of plummard piss and gen’ral unwashedness. Practically had to drag the antisocial bastard into civilization by having fuckin’ weekly sessions at the local pub.”

The wolf witcher gave him an amused look. “Don’t ask me how he did it; Regis said she’d started the work of seeing humans in general as people in their own right, rather than just a giant confusing horde.”

Jerome whinced. “Yeah I...never could really get him around to that idea. Not like I really tried, to be honest. You know how it is; damned cities are great for finding a whorehouse for a shag, but  _ fuck  _ the rest of the people in it.”

They nod, sharing a moment of solidarity over the hatred of  _ noise  _ and  _ smells  _ and generally  _ everything  _ in cities that played havoc on enhanced senses like theirs. He had a better tolerance and would dance and sing and stomp grapes with the best of ‘em when the wine festival rolled ‘round, but only for a little while. Dettlaff had it so much worse, the poor fuck, which made the accomplishments of this mystery girl that much more impressive- Then again, she’d probably dragged him into society by his prick, not an advantage he’d had.

“Well, sounds like a girl that doesn't give up easily; I should know. What’s her name, eh? She nice?”

Geralt gives him a look and...oh, he doesn't like that look. Not one fucking bit.

- _ She’s not nice, not in the least, she’s terrifyingly smart and ruthless and oh so callous, playing him like a fiddle and shes made his awkwardly sincere lil’ brother into a weapon, made his father's research into a weapon, planned to make bastard versions of him into a weapon, everything is a needle going into the arms of toussaint full of cruel poison- _

“I’m sorry, Batty-fang.” He rasps, carding a hand through Dettlaff’s hair. His face has gotten older, there’s a streak of silver at the temple that wasn't there before. “Wasn’t there for you.”

At least he’s here now though, for all the good that does. He’s too fucked-up to do anything substantial, like swinging a sword or lighting this bitch on fire, but that’s not what he needs right now. Geralt-this stranger, who’s got every reason to put his brother down like the rabid dog he is-has, for some godforsaken reason, decided to lend his sword to protect his brother from his ex and her terrifying plans, hell, even protect Dettlaff from  _ himself _ . It’s an enormous debt to have to a person he barely knows, but if it affords him the time and space needed to help his brother he’d take it. He’d take it, and hope that the needs of Dettlaff and the incentive of needing to pay that back is enough to stave off the dull screaming at the back of his head, the needles needles  _ needles- _

“-don’t leave me alone here buddy.” He’s not fully in control of what he’s saying, he’s not sure  _ what  _ he’s saying. “Please don’t leave me. It’ll come back,  _ he’ll  _ come back-”

He grabs his face in his hands, pressed their foreheads together. “Don’t leave, don’t  _ leave-” _

The blue eyes blink-

And then he blinks as he’s holding nothing more than a handful of red smoke, the cage clanging loudly as Dettlaff crashes into it. Geralt jerks out of his meditation and draws the silver sword, but to Jerome’s relief he only holds it, watching Dettlaff warily. Sometimes in the depths of the worst episodes Dettlaff would lose huge chunks of time, misremember things that never actually happened, or-very rarely-see things. Nothing like the kind of things you’d see on a badly-made potion, mind, but...better safe than sorry. Coming out of it was a gamble on how he’d react or behave, and while he’s pretty sure Dettlaff is as weak as a wet kitten he’s not in his right mind quite yet; those eyes are too distant and pale, edging towards silver. 

As if to prove him right, Dettlaff takes a hold of the cage. He can’t fling it, but he tries; sending it rolling away and crashing into the wall with an almighty bang. He’s shaky and unfocused, staggering like he’s drunk away from it. His nails are trying to lengthen into claws but they can’t get more than a few inches, and he himself can’t get more than a few feet before he folds in on himself, knees drawn up to his chest, hands across his face. He’s shaking, tiny gasps like he can’t breathe tearing their way out of his throat. 

“Detty?” He tries.

Dettlaff doesn't hear him. He doesn't do anything other than shiver and shudder, wont respond to his attempts to get his breathing under control. He even snarls and snaps at him when he puts a hand on his shoulder and he jerks away, knowing well that this is probably a bad time to try anything. He’s liable to shred him right now. He’s not sure if he can reach him honestly; he’d disappeared without a trace ages ago, Dettlaff might not think he’s even  _ real.  _ He’s out of his catatonia, but he definitely hasn't surfaced completely. This is...this is bad. It’s like the swamp, the staring and shifting, nervous fidgeting and flinching. He’d been like a tweaker with withdrawal bugs, seeing danger and enemies around every corner, liable to snap. He hadn’t been...all there in the swamp. Hadn’t been all there until almost a month later actually, when Jerome had finally had enough and out of desperation tugs him down and taught him to goddamn meditate and control his breathing. 

He’s coming down from the heights of delusion, but that doesn't mean it’s better-he’s just less organized, thoughts disjointed and illogical. Well,  _ more _ illogical. The madness that had led him to think that killing a shit ton of innocent people was in any way justified was still there, but the ability to plan to do it and give reasons for it was pretty much gone, leaving him disorientated with a fuzzy edge to reality. 

He carefully withdraws, because right now there isn't much he can do, at least in this case. After Dalia and Tasar had bit it he’d rampaged and then fallen unconscious. Once he’d woken he’d snapped out of it, but this is, if anything, somewhat worse. He’d been betrayed, kept in the dark, then restrained in a cage-yeah, this was a clusterfuck. Right now he might be dangerous, and he was too weak to dodge a swipe of claws. Better to leave him for now and slowly work Dettlaff around when he was stronger, but at least he was out of his catatonic state. 

He sighs, and turns to Geralt, waving him to his side. They walk out and sit on a bench just outside the enclosure, and the wolf witcher-bless him-wordlessly hands him a swallow. 

“What now?” Geralt asks.

He takes a swig. “Now, it’s just a factor of time.”

“How much time are we talking about here?”

“Last I saw him this bad was when we met. Took a couple of weeks for him to be anything less than a fuckin’ mess.” He eyed Geralt warily. “Look, this might take...a while. Months, maybe a year before he can be on his own. If you can’t-”

“Meant it when I offered you a place to stay. Offer extends to him too.” He paused. “Listen, Regis...he was burnt to ashes to save my life, Yen’s life, and the lives of a lot of people I cared about. If Dettlaff hadn't taken him in, I might never have seen him again. Hell, he might never have recovered, stuck in some purgatory forever; you know as well as I that it can happen to some vampires when they get destroyed to that degree.”

The wolf witcher looks back at the shivering lump in the cellar enclosure. “If time is what it takes, then I’ll give you all the time you need.”

He stares at the fellow mutant across from him, feeling...well, overwhelmed, and having a bitch of a time not showing it. This is the first  _ anyone  _ has stepped up with an explicit offer of help with his brother; Dalia and Tasar had helped in their own small ways without ever knowing the depth and breadth of what lay under the surface and how bad it could get because Dettlaff had been the most well-adjusted he could possibly get back then. He hadn't had a major episode in years, just the occasional bad dreams and even those had been seldom. 

And now, even though Dettlaff was completely deserving of a death sentence for being an insane homicidal asshole, he was offering a hand palm out, instead of a hand with a sword in it. Fuck, this was giving him all sorts of  _ feelings _ , and hope that maybe, with help he’d get back to that point in his life where his brother had been happy, where he’d been happy, where-

He clenches his fists and his jaw before he does something embarrassing, managing to grate out “Thank you.”

Geralt gives him a look that leaves him with the impression he hadn’t been entirely successful, but he doesn't comment on it. “What else is he going to need, besides time?”

He knows he’s being offered a way to save face, and doesn't even have the wherewithal to be embarrassed about it. This, at least, is something he can do. He takes another fortifying swig and a breath, then starts in. 

“Best to have your mage take that cage and see if she can’t make it bigger, sink that metal into the walls or something.” He’s not entirely sure where the fuck they found that cage, but he recognizes that weird sheen of the metal. It was like the collar and chain in that hellhole, the only thing capable of containing a higher vampire. He can understand using it, but restraining him in it was just about the  _ worst  _ way to go about it. “Keep him in there, away from noise, smells, anything too overwhelming. One or two people at a time for short stints. Familiar faces only, like that doctor. Be careful with him; he’ll be unpredictable and erratic. One day he’ll be fine, the next he’ll be raging about a dropped spoon.”

Geralt grimaces. “Think...I know what that’s like. Is it like after…?”

“Yeah,” He sighs, because he knows what he’s talking about.  _ Fucking trials. _ “Just like that.”

He knew the anger and fear after, the wild swings in mood, fighting to stay awake because the nightmares were so bad. How at first the meditation would just make it worse, bring the images of the needles to the forefront. It was like that for Dettlaff too. Part of why they’d clung to each other, as unhealthy as that was. Felt nice to be understood; because while he knew that there were other witchers that had gone through the same thing, none of them were on the path with him. Dettlaff was though; ready to nudge him awake out of bad dreams. Or shove a plummard into his arms to pet, because as silly as it sounded he took a lot of comfort in Dettlaff’s frankly ugly menagerie. 

He jerked his head up, just realizing he’d drifted. “Fucks sakes-so ploughing tired.”

“Who would have thought that trying to run away and steal a horse would be so exhausting.” Geralt deadpanned.

“Oh, sod off.” He snorted. “Damned if you aren't right though. Think your mage will be pissed being woke up to do the cage? Don’t want to risk him being out of it.”

“Eh,” Geralt waved a hand. “Not like I have a choice. She’ll mostly reserve her wrath for me.” He gave Jerome an amused look. “Mostly.”

He groaned and the wolf witcher smirked at him. The man even helped Jerome up the stairs, after he nearly stumbled over the first step, to his embarrassment. They got back to the house without any major issues, trading the darkness of the cellar for the lit warmth of home.

“Looks like I’m not the only one burning the midnight oil.” Geralt addresses the room as he comes in, getting the attention of the guards and Damien. Yen just arched an eyebrow at them.

“While you were busy in the basement, we’ve managed to locate Syanna.” She frowned, looking annoyed. “Well, after considerable effort. I will grant her this, she’s very good at making herself difficult to find.”

Next to him Jerome muttered a rather creative contraction of verbs and nouns to describe their favorite scheming heiress that he couldn’t quite hear. He’s not quite sure if fucking a giant, sapient bat counted as beastiality, but he is sure that Jerome needed his bed.

“Time to hit the hay for you,” He said to the flagging griffin witcher. Regis chuckled and stood, taking the man off his hands-or, well, shoulder. That done he turned to address the captain. “Looks like you brought everyone over.”

“Not quite, we’re waiting on the men’s reports of her stronghold; we don’t want to go in blind. Depending on how many of her men she has there, we may wish to have your daughter call in reinforcements. For now, we can at least be assured she isn't going to be moving around much; she’s found the perfect base to retreat to.” Damian said, sipping on a coffee. He looked tired.

Geralt arched an eyebrow. “Base? Where at then?”

“The ruins of Kaer Seren.” Yen murmurs.

Geralt blinks, taken aback. “Isn't that-”

“The former stronghold of the Griffin school? Apparently she found it. Difficult to scry as it’s still shielded with magic, and would have been impossible if not for using the connection with the music box.” She scowled at the mark on the map. “I could see enough to figure that out-really, it’s the only thing it could be, an unknown ruins in the mountains, the connection with the lab…but not enough to see details. I’ve no idea just how much of a hornet’s nest this place is going to be.”

Geralt swore. “No telling what witcher secrets were in there either.”

“Quite enough to fuel her research, I imagine. The lab and the man’s journal in his crypt was possibly the last missing piece needed to finish their plans.” Damien sighed. “By Melitele, I hope she hasn't already made a few shock troops of her own.”

He hopes so too. If Gaetan is anything to go by, that would be a difficult fight, even for him  _ and  _ with the forewarning about what he was facing. “When do you think we could head out then?”

“A day, maybe two.” Damien rubs at his tired eyes. “Time enough for us to prepare, receive reports, and gather additional men, if need be.”

Geralt nodded. “Fair enough. Anything else to be done?”

“Rest, I suppose.” Yen said, sounding tired. “It’s not just our runaway that needs sleep, I think.”

“You want to sleep here Damien? Think I can billet you and your men if you want.” Geralt offered.

The captain sighed. “I may as well; I’ll have to come back here anyway.”

Geralt feels like a heel for waking up BB’s second-in-command, but the man-Jerade-just shrugs and says he’s used to it. That done he returns to Yen, going cautiously. “Got a favor to ask.”

She gives him an irritated look. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

“It really can’t.”

She heaves a deep sigh. “What is it then.”

“Think you can make a bat cage for the one in the cellar? Being restrained makes him...shut down, I guess you’d say, and makes his condition worse. Don’t want to just leave him in the cellar without being muzzled in some way, though.”

She gives him a look like she wants to question that, but then remembers what she’d seen in his head after checking on him this morning. Well, yesterday morning. She rubs her temples. “Is he at least not going to try to rip my throat out when I go down? Because I’m too tired to be nice; if he tries anything I’m making lightly toasted vampire for breakfast”

“Feel free to zap him if you want, but he’s pretty weak. Couldn't walk more than a few feet last I saw, but I can restrain him if need be.” 

“Fine.” She says, sighing heavily, and Geralt follows her to the cellar, silent for a bit.

“Yen...be honest.” He paused. “The castle...is this...is this going to be as big as I think it is?”

She turned to him with a worried frown. “...It just might be. If she’s brought all her men from the other bases like we think, and if they’ve had time to make some mutated men...well. We’ll need a lot of help for this one, I think.”

Geralt swallows. “Yen...maybe we should keep Regis here. Even if they don’t have mutants there, they still have that man-made venom. If they-”

She arched an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if we’ll be able to stop him. He’s got as much of a stake in this as anyone else-more, even, considering how badly this affected his blood-brother.”

“Dammit Yen, this-” He bites his tongue against the rush of angry words, because it’s not directed against her, it’s just-

_ -There’s a man screaming as he burns, Vilgeforz baring his teeth in a grin- _

“-Dearest.” Yen’s hands cup his face gently. “This isn't another Stygga.”

She strokes his cheeks with her thumbs until he calms, and he lets out a slow breath “...Sorry.”

She gives him a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he hopes she’s looking into his mind then to see the gratitude he can’t voice then. He can feel Yen smile against his skin, and then she turns to the cellar. “Come, let’s get the cage finished before we retire. The men will take time to assemble, and I fully intend to spend as much of that as I can resting.”

Geralt gave her an amused look. “Think you’re finally starting to learn the witcher way of doing things.”

“What, being as lazy as possible, whenever possible? I would have thought you’d realized I’d learned that when we retired to our lovely cottage.” Yen sniffed delicately, then she’s all business. “Go fetch a spare cot for the vampire as well, if you would. He may be our prisoner, but I believe we’re supposed to be  _ trying  _ to rehabilitate him. I doubt he’ll be so easy to convince him of our good intentions if he’s left to sleep on the stone floor.”

“Fair enough.” Geralt said, and went to get their resident rabid bat settled in. 

  
  
  



	22. Robbing the cradle

* * *

Damien felt like warmed-over death.

He groaned and rolled out of bed-well, cot-and slouched his way to the kitchen, following his nose to the smell of breakfast and coffee. Janne is already here curled around his cup, chatting with the wolf witcher.

“Good to hear you got out of Novigrad okay.”

Janne nodded. “Suppose it was for the best you kicked my ass out of it. My cousin Louis was playing the role of a beggar and eventually got caught. He was lucky the pyres had been extinguished then but he still had a rough go of it in jail.”

“He got out though?”

“Had to bail him out, but since I was on the guard payroll by then and in a shiny new uniform I could bluster and bluff my way to springing him. Helped that I had some official-looking letter from Damien.”

At Geralt’s curious look the captain elaborated. “It was part and parcel of our agreement to have his assistance with an investigation that he’d gotten involved in. Helping the downtrodden wasn't a habit he’d broken even if he was no longer in Novigrad, and it got him into some trouble. It all turned out in the end and I had a new member to my team, so I count that as a win.”

Of course Geralt wanted to know just what he’d gotten involved in and Janne was happy to regale him with the tale while Damien blearily got himself some coffee. His darling wife had the foresight to send over a care package for him yesterday when he hadn’t come home in the evening, and it came with a pound of beans. Enough to make a pot for everyone, and he sighs happily thinking how appropriate that her name is Angeline. While he’s in the kitchen he runs into the doctor-or, well, more like the doctor runs into him. Apparently a sleep-deprived vampire is in just as much need of a good coffee in the morning as any human, and he watches with a detached fascination as the doctor grabs the pot and-to his baffled awe-drinks straight from it, adam's apple bobbing as he slugs half of it down.

“...Isn't that hot?”

“ [ Extremely ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1htKBjuUWec) .” He says, nonplussed.

Damien sips his cup and lets the man alone. He has a feeling that he should wait to talk further until the coffee kicks in, and watches as Regis mixes up two bowls of some thin restorative gruel, probably for his two patients. By the end of it the doctor is looking marginally more awake, and he offers his assistance.

“I’ll feed the griffin witcher; I need to talk to him anyway.” He says, taking a bowl. 

The doctor snorts, looking deeply amused in a sort of...punch-drunk kind of way. He made a mental note to have Marlene brew more coffee. “Good luck with that.”

Damien watches him breeze out, feeling  _ slightly  _ concerned about the doctor, but it’s not like he can do anything. He needs to focus on the griffin witcher, in the hopes the man could give him a layout of the castle. The sorceress Yennefer was a very powerful mage in her own right, but the spells laid into the stonework of the former witcher school were powerful. Try as she might, she hadn't been able to see much. Hopefully, this ‘Jerome’ would be of some assistance.

He steps in and in about two minutes he’s pretty rudely stripped of that notion. By the unfocused look on his face the witcher has either gotten into Regis’ supplies, or is sobering up from them. The doctor  _ had  _ been using opium tincture on the man to manage the pain of regrowing... _ everything _ ; but with the chaos happening on the estate he’s pretty sure Jerome’s either stopped cold turkey after the bottle of it broke, or he’s being weaned off it with other substitutes (though whether under doctor’s approval or self-administered is debatable). Damien has been around plenty of addicts suffering withdrawal, and it’s always a dicey operation.

“...Breakfast for you.” Damien says cautiously.

“Better not be shit.”

He flicks his eyes to the bowl, and it’s not the most appetizing looking thing to be honest. “Not in the... _ literal _ sense, no.”

The witcher narrows his eyes, and he shoves it into the man’s hands before he can get any more suspicious. 

“Fucks sakes.” Jerome says, looking into the bowl. “What one-eyed, one-crown dollymop did you milk to get this nasty cumwater?”

He’s not sure what a ‘dollymop’ is, but he can guess. “Regis, actually. He-”

“That flying jackass knows shit-all about food. I’ve made better grits in a ploughing swamp with pondwater and tadpoles!”

“If the doctor made this for you, I can only assume it’s because this is what’s needed.” 

“What I need is a blowjob with a side of bacon.”

“Well, unless you’re particularly flexible and you can sneak past Marlene, you’ll get neither.” Damien said through gritted teeth. He was starting to lose his patience.

“After my sprint yesterday my legs are like goddamn noodles. My third leg could get me there, but I don't feel like humping my way ‘cross the floor like a perverted inchworm.” 

“Well, I suppose you’ll just have to eat the gruel then; we all make sacrifices.” 

“Well, how about my first request then? Fucks sakes, help a man out!”

“One, I am married, two, you are not my second choice or even a  _ choice _ with a face like that. _ ” _

Oh, that seemed to strike a nerve. Jerome flung the bowl of gruel at him and he only just ducked it; that’s when the yelling started.

“Sure, I’m crazy and my face is fuckadelic, but when we’re all dead, nobody will care. But you;  _ you _ will eternally be an assbadger even when you’re six feet under. In fact, I’m carving that on your tombstone: ‘He was a po-faced arrow-up-the-arse cop-rimmer who might’ve even been slightly hot if he wasn’t such an  _ eternal fucking assbadger! _ ’ Come back as a wraith if you dare, grannyfucker; I’m so mutated now that I might well piss spectre oil. Fucking humiliatin’ for ya if I banish you with a golden shower!”

The commotion seemed to have attracted attention; both Geralt and Janne had poked their heads around the corner. The former looked slightly amused while the latter more concerned, though still thoroughly entertained. 

“Having a tough go of it, Captain?” The doppler asked.

“Shut it Janne.” He muttered, ducking a spoon.

“I’ll get another bowl.” Geralt said, sounding deeply amused.

“You do that.” Growled Damien.

At least he had some consolation in that the wolf witcher wasn’t spared any abuse either. As soon as he re-entered, the griffin witcher started in on him.

“Fucking gruel, man? Did you finally find a liquor strong enough for the likes of us, but it was wood alcohol and now you’ve gone simple? Shit, I’m older than your granddad, not some puling fucken babe who needs gruel and nappies. Get the fuck out until you can provide pork and vodka.” Jerome said, giving the new bowl a disgusted look. 

“If you make another mess, I just might string a napkin ‘round your neck and to the ceiling.” Geralt drawled. 

“If you think you can put me in nappies, I’ll consider that sexual fucken assault and react with all the venomous teeth necessary. Now fuck off back to your monochrome mage or something. No, wait, actually don’t- I can smell her cunt all over you and it. Is.  _ Awkward _ .”

“Jerome Morue!” Marlene yelled from the kitchen. “If you don’t stop with that language right now and eat the gruel-”

“Gimme the bowl, gimme the bowl!” Jerome hissed frantically.

Geralt practically threw it at him and he swilled it down, pulling a face afterwards. “Meletilies tits thats nasty.”

“Worse than the special diet to prepare for the trials?” Geralt asked.

“Hell no; but that’s setting the bar a bit low.”

Damien sighed in exasperation at...all of them, really. “Now that you’ve eaten, may I  _ please  _ discuss the griffin school with you?”

Jerome gave him a baffled look. “What, Kaer Seren? The fuck you want to ‘discuss’ about that?”

“The layout, mainly. Our villainous heiress has decided to take up residence in it and scrying is impossible. My men have been dispatched to survey it, but they can only see the outside.”

“How in the fuck she get in? We’re neutral! Ol’ Keldar at the gate would tell her to go plough a slyzard, not have the castle open it’s legs for her.”

“ ‘Fraid there’s no one left to tell her no.” Geralt said quietly. “Last griffin witcher around-before you popped back up-was Coen. He was living with us at Kaer Morhen because Seren had been taken out by an avalanche. Some mage pulled half the mountainside on it.”

Jerome stared at him. “...Last griffin-it was just him? That got out? There's no…”

“As far as I know, he was the only one not at the castle when it happened.”

Jerome looked stunned, blinking stupidly at him, and Damien felt deeply uncomfortable. Yennefer had told him that the castle had been devoid of life for some time so he’d thought that the other witcher already knew; but perhaps the castle was scoured of its inhabitants after he was ‘killed’. 

The griffin witcher twitched, and in a peculiar monotone asked: “What do you need.”

“A general layout, if you would.”

He keeps it quick and simple in deference to the man, but it’s enough for a general sketch of the layout. Damien’s not quite sure just how accurate it will be; the avalanche that had buried it was obviously cleared away, but the damage had to have been extensive if there were no survivors. His scouts might be able to fill in the gaps if they managed to sneak in, but he couldn't risk them getting caught and alerting the wiley heiress; she’d given them the slip once already. The best he could hope for with his scouts is them taking an approximate headcount through a spyglass and maybe a vague idea of the grounds if they got a particularly good vantage point. Although out of date, this was as good as they were probably going to get.

“Thank you sir. I appreciate your help.” 

“Yeah.” Jerome says numbly. “You're welcome.”

Well, nothing for it but to sidle into the next room and try not to feel too horrid. Behind him he hears just a whisper of a conversation.

_ “I hated that place.” _

_ “I know.” _

_ “...But I’m sad it’s gone.” _

_ “...I know.” _

Damien moves outside before he can hear anything else of this very private discussion, taking Janne with him. The doppler doesn't seem to have overheard anything, but he’s happy to enjoy the outside air. The inside still smells faintly of charred wood. Outside, he’s got a prime vantage point to see one of his men riding up; a messenger from the capitol looks like.

“Captain; got some news.”

“Is it from the scouts?”

“Nah, they only just got there this morning; it’s about that jewel thief. We finally tracked ‘em down to a morgue.” Damien handed him a water jug and he swilled it down gratefully. “We got a problem.”

“Indeed?”

“Jewel thief’s not our cintrian. Guy didn't match the sketch at all; wrong-colored eyes, he was too stout, and clean-shaven.” *

Damien frowned. “Is the body still available?”

“Yeah, I put in an order not to have it cremated. Hasn't been actually autopsied yet; jewel thief was thought to be an open-shut case.”

“Hmm.” He tapped his chin. “Let’s take a look then, might find something. Is our doctor available?”

“He’s on another case.”

“Damn. Well, let's see if Regis wants to play mortician.” He turned to Janne. “Ready a horse and a mule for us, will you?”

“Sure boss.”

He turned to the messenger. “And you, stay here and tell Geralt where we’ve gone once you see him. Also, make sure you take a bun or two from Marlene or she’ll cajol me into eating them.”

The man gave him an amused look, but did as he asked. As lovely as her food was, Damien was starting to feel like a stuffed chicken from it all. He was  _ trying  _ to keep himself fighting fit, damn it. Speaking of, he’s sure Regis hasn't eaten yet and neither has he, so he grabs a bowl of porridge for the both of them (actual sweetened porridge, not that bland gruel being fed to the patients) and trotted over to the cellar to find the doctor. He was probably still attending Dettlaff, a rather...risky endeavor, in his opinion. He’d been told the other vampire had been injured quite a bit in the fight between them and that he’d been put into a cell he could not escape, but he was still concerned for the doctor’s safety. Despite Regis being a force of nature capable of leveling whole villages he knows very well that there are certain threats even a higher vampire can’t guard oneself against. He’s seen it before, with people taking care of unstable family members falling under the axe of illness. Unfortunately, with Regis both being Dettlaff’s friend and the on-hand doctor there isn’t anyone else in a better position to care for the other vampire. He can only hope Geralt will keep a close eye on the man.

To his surprise-and relief-he finds the doctor in the newly discovered alchemist's lab just off the landing. He’s got his back to Damien, hands on the workbench while he leans over it, presumably working on something. Before he can get a word out the man sighs and addresses him without so much as turning around.

“Captain,” He says tiredly. “Do you need something?”

“Your assistance, if you wouldn't mind. We’ve come upon the body of one of Syanna’s men and my usual doctor is otherwise occupied; would you be able to perform an autopsy for me?”

Regis is silent for a long moment, and about now is when he notices the way the vampire is practically only standing upright because he’s resting his entire weight on the bench, shoulders sloped and head down to hang, defeated, from them. There’s gruel spattered on his tunic, and he has to wonder if it’s because Dettlaff had thrown it at him, along with a few spitting words of hatred. His investigative instincts note all these things in an instant, and while he’s not  _ quite  _ sure how to attend to a creature that’s only very superficially human he’s sure  _ some  _ principles are the same.

“...I have breakfast for you.” 

Another short silence. “...The offer is appreciated Damien, but I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“Unfortunately, that matters little in regards to Marlene. I assure you, far better to force it down rather than be hounded by her.”

At this, the doctor sighs and, at last, turns to follow him out. Damien passes him a clean handkerchief to wipe off the mess of gruel on him, and he does his best to feign obliviousness to the man surreptitiously using it to wipe his eyes first. He takes care to lead the vampire to a spot well out of view of the cellar entrance, shaded from the early-morning sun with nothing more than some errant children playing with their wooden toys. They provide a sort of distraction from his glum thoughts, the doctor watching them absently and mechanically eating his food. Only once the other man has eaten the entire bowl does Damien speak.

“I do apologize for the intrusion doctor.” He says, as inoffensively as he can. “I didn't mean to bother you at such an...inopportune time.”

“It’s quite alright.” He says quietly. 

He pauses a moment, finishing up his own meal. “You need not come if you don’t wish to; I can simply wait for my own medic to finish working on another case.”

“No, I…” Regis flicks his eyes in the direction of the cellar, and he can only just catch the guilty look in them before it’s gone. “...I would like to accompany you.”

Damien only nods, not commenting on it. He can bet the doctor wants to get away from the grind of his responsibilities to the other vampire; but doubtless feels shame for wishing to do so. Sometimes he curses his natural attention to detail and ability to read people. It’s not necessarily helpful when he can figure out what’s going on in another person’s head when he has no idea what to  _ do  _ about it. Best he can hope for is taking him along on this case and providing a distraction.

“Very well; I have a mule ready for you. Geralt said they were far more tolerant of your kind, though I’m not sure if he was making some kind of...insinuating joke.” 

Regis actually managed a small smile at that. “Did he now?”

“He mentioned something about their particular brand of stubborness being a good match for you.”

“He’s one to talk.” Regis chuckled softly at that, standing. “Come captain, let’s be off.”

They’re able to make good time to Beuclair and go straight to the city mortuary; the main one. This one was funded by the duchy, rather than the smaller family-operated funeral homes. This was where the bodies of victims and criminals went to be examined and recorded before being put into the ground. It used to be an unorganized dumping ground rife with corruption before he put orders through and appointed better management. Now instead of a dank little hole stinking of rot it’s a well-lit catacomb kept chilled via magic to preserve the bodies longer. This was the only example of such though; the body of Du Lac had already started to degrade and his men didn't want to drag the horrid thing all the way to Beauclair so they’d appropriated the wine cellar of the nearby deserted estate to preserve the body until their on-staff doctor could examine it. The jewel thief, however, had been killed within city limits so the body had been stored here.

Errol-his old commanding officer-greeted them “Damien! Good to see you. Come for the thief?” 

“We have. May I introduce our doctor for today, Regis?”

“Ah, I heard what you did for the duchess. Honored to meet you.” Errol shook hands enthusiastically with the barber-surgeon, and the latter smiled a little looking slightly less glum. Errol had that effect.

“Pleasure’s mine. I’m impressed with the facility; never have I been in a mortuary so clean and well-organized.”

Errol preened. “Once I retired from being a street guard I was appointed here. Labor of love-and what labor, let me tell yah.”

Errol had them sign in, a mere formality for Damien, but...rather more difficult for Regis. The doctor had to suffer hand cramps to get his full name and date on the line and it  _ still _ was an indecipherable scribble. Damien squinted at it, trying to read it, but it was a lost cause.

“Just what  _ is  _ your full name then?” He said, leading the vampire down the hall.

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy.” He rattled them off. “A name for every century lived, each a full name  _ and  _ capitalized if one has notable accomplishments in them, as is tradition amongst our people. I am  _ almost  _ five hundred, so the last two are...well, the word for it doesn't translate well into your tongue, but I suppose ‘conjoined’ is close.”

“Interesting.” Damien hummned, curious. “And...Dettlaff?”

“Dettlaff van der Eretein. He is only just four hundred, though being a homebody and avoidant of the rest of our kind he has no noteworthy accomplishments for the middle two names. The first is given to us by our parents, the last is the family surname that we acquire upon turning two centuries, so that at least is much like you humans, and are capitalized regardless of accomplishments in them. The others we choose as we age.”

“Ah, so he is a bit younger than you.”

“Mmm, technically?” He made a ‘so-so’ gesture. “We don’t physically age once we reach maturity unless forced to regenerate to an extreme degree. I have had the misfortune of suffering that  _ twice,  _ so…”

Damien took a look at the doctor, who was...well, starting to bald and had grey-white hair. He looked to be as old in appearance as his father who was in his late sixties, though Regis seemned in relatively good health save for the permanently reddened eyes. 

“Ah. I imagine the process is taxing.”

“Indeed.” He ran a hand across his scalp with a wistful expression. “I miss my black hair.”

Damien resisted running a hand over his own, which had been shaved to conceal the fact that he too was balding. “Well, I suppose to you age is just a number, but I imagine it must have  _ some  _ impact on your connection with a younger member of your kind. Especially as he  _ looks _ so much younger than you; do you get mistaken for his father in public?”

“He’s not  _ that  _ much younger or...younger-looking.” Regis protested.

“Still. What would you call your relationship with him then? I personally would find it difficult to be friends with someone a century younger than me. A mentor-ship of sorts then?” He said absently, flipping the sheet off the body.

“...Yes.” The doctor said awkwardly.

Damien looked up at the vampire at that, and the other man didn’t meet his gaze, instead moving in on the body with a businesslike air. Damien stood there with the bloody sheet, gears slowly ticking over in his head at how  _ really, people don’t  _ **_usually_ ** _ nervously pet the hair of their unconscious friends while caring for them- _

“I’ll just...leave you to it then.” Damien said slowly, walking out. Not that he hasn’t witnessed an autopsy before, but he’s going to make an  _ attempt _ not to let on what he’s thinking out of respect for the other man’s privacy. 

Sometimes, he  _ really  _ hated how good he was at reading people.

He sat up at the front desk with Errol instead, sipping hot tea to keep warm in this cold chest, waiting. It takes a while-it never pays to rush an autopsy-but eventually Regis emerges, hands bloody. All of them walk outside to warm back up and for the doctor to make use of the pump here to wash his hands clean, Errol lending him a thick bar of harsh soap and a bucket of sand to scrub with. They converse in the weedy courtyard, Regis giving them both the rundown.

“I believe something’s at play here.” The doctor muttered. “Not only does he not match the cintrian’s description, his neck was snapped. Not broken, snapped. The break is too neat, clean; the bruises all post-mortem. That, and considering he’s definitely not the cintrian, I must wonder if he was placed there as a red herring, to throw you and your men off the scent.”

“Mmmm.” Errol stirred his tea with a finger. “I did wonder. The lady he was robbing said she’d pushed him out of the window, but I’ve seen her before at big parties with the duchess. Pretty little chit, as light and thin as a bird. Probably not more than a hundred and a quarter soaking wet.”

“What was taken?” Damien asked.

“Some ridiculously gaudy thing; worth a pretty penny in gold and precious stone but honestly it was kinda hideous, if I say so myself. My girl prefers classy, understated ornaments rather than that flash.” Errol sniffed. “Cintrian used some singer to let himself in, presumably for some private time to hide the sausage, slit her throat instead-a waste!-and our darling hostess came in to save the day, though not the singer. Pushed him out of the window to his death,  _ presumably. _ ”

“Do we still have the singer here?”

“Nah, family up and claimed it mere hours after; thought to be a closed case so we let them take her. No need for her to be taking up a slab.”

Damien tapped a finger to his lips. “Hm. And our primary witness?”

“What, our party hostess? Orianna’s still at her estate, same as ever. She was unharmed.”

Regis jerked to attention. “Orianna?  _ She  _ was the one that was robbed?”

Errol raised an eyebrow. “You know her?”

“An...old friend of mine.” Regis gave Damien a significant look.  _ Need to talk to you in private. _

“Errol, would you get the thief’s belongings? We’ll take a look at them before we leave.”

He knew exactly what was up, but the man only shrugged and wandered back down into the mortuary.

“What is it doctor?”

“Orianna is a... _ very  _ old friend of mine.” Regis said. “Ancient, in fact.”

Damien blinked, then sighed. “Don’t tell me. Vampire?”

“Afraid so captain.”

“Well,  _ that’d  _ explain why she’d be able to take down a thief on her own.” He rubbed his temples. “But not that he’s some random body instead of our cintrian! Arrgh, why must everything with this damned case be so-”

Errol returned then, a bag in hand. “Here; it’s the thief’s toolbag. Nothing was found on the body, but the bag had been dropped inside the estate during the struggle between her and the burglar. Also got you the file with the sketches and notes.”

Damien thanked him, taking a look over the statement his guardsmen had recorded and the sketch of the scene-frowning deeply at both-then pawed through the bag. It was the usual set of lockpicks, an ornamental dagger, and-

“A diagram?” Regis looked it over. “Well well, looks like he was after a very specific jewel. Interesting.”

“Not just any jewel.” Damien examined it critically, waving Regis to his side as they walked to their mounts. “This is the heart of Toussaint; an heirloom of the royal family. It was given to Syanna, and was one of the distinguishing items that would help me find her when tasked to do so all those years ago.”

“Obviously she sought to recover it; though I would never have pegged our coldly macheviallian heiress as sentimental.”

“Nor should you,” Damien explained. “That jewel is more than just worth a pretty penny in coin or memories, it’s her heritage. She shows up with that gem on her neck, she’ll have more than just her word she’s the heir, she’ll have  _ proof _ .”

“Ah, that  _ does  _ make more sense,” Regis commented, mounting up.

“Yes, but the crime scene does not,” Damien muttered, also mounting his horse. “I suppose there's nothing for it then; let’s see if your friend can give us any clues. Would you mind accompanying me, doctor?”

“Not at all. I’m finding this rather intriguing, actually.”

“At least one of us is.” Damien sighed, and they headed out.

* * *

The estate was gorgeous. 

Not the absolute height of luxury, but certainly close. The gardens were lush, the architecture beautifully sculpted, the furniture imported. Even the wine she supped on was full bodied and sweet, the red color of freshly spilled blood. The kind of wine no poor beggar would lay eyes on as they pawed through trash heaps or held out their begging bowl for their next meal. Luxury and indulgences around every corner, all hers. Including luxuries that most would never dream of.

_ No, those would be found in nightmares. _

She swirled the deep red wine a bit, feeling chilled. She was no longer thirsty.

“Lady Orianna; you’ve visitors.”

“Show them in.” She said absently, setting the cup aside.

She watched them approach, the first a guard of some sort; by his ornament a high-ranking one. The other was a slight gentleman of later years, and he spoke first.

“Orianna.” He said, inclining his head. “Been a while.”

“Indeed. Absolutely ages.” She turned to his companion. “Introduce me to your friend, if you would?”

“Captain of the guard, Damien.”

“Ah,” She said, rising. “I assume you’ve come about the thief?”

“Indeed, my lady,” Damien said, turning a very intense stare on her. She narrowed her eyes, not liking it one bit.

“If you please, could you tell the events of the night, in detail,  _ exactly?”  _

“Your men have already recorded my statement.”

“Humor me.”

She sighed. “Oh, very well. I caught him red-handed, rifling through my possessions-”

“How? What alerted you to his presence?”

She stopped, annoyed and thrown off her rehearsed statement, and then resumed. “...One of my guests alerted me he’d heard noises from my room. I was the only one with a key, so-”

“Why did you go alone? Did you not have some sort of hired men to keep drunkards from getting out of control?”

“Truthfully, I thought it was nothing-this  _ particular  _ guest had been trying to woo me all night. Not...unsuccessfully, I might add.” She paused, smiling a bit, then continued. “I simply thought he was trying to move things along. I went in, expecting to find nothing but the sound of his footsteps when he followed me in;  _ not  _ to find someone pawing through my things.” 

“This guest that was trying to woo you, a description, if you will.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “Some man with black hair, a goatee... a bit of an accent. Pleasant sort,  _ very  _ charming.”

“Did he give you a name, perchance?”

“A lady never bandies a gentleman’s name.” She said coldly. “I would appreciate it if you didn't keep prying into my private affairs.”

That seemed to dissuade him. “Very well. How did you come into possession of the jewel?”

“I bought it. Many years ago, from a young woman.”

“Hmm.” Damien sniffed, then moved on. “And upon finding the thief, what did you do, summon the guards?”

“There was no time. I feared he’d escape, refused to give him the chance. He stood with his back to me, so I attacked.” She said, annoyed that she had to repeat this  _ again.  _ “He struck his head on a picture frame as we struggled. He was bleeding, dazed...and then he drew a knife. Everything happened very quickly then. I knocked the weapon out of his hand and pushed him hard. He-”

“-Fell out of the window.”

“Yes,” She hissed. “Like I’ve already said to the  _ other  _ guardsmen.”

Damien eyed her for a moment then; “May we see the scene?”

She sighed in exasperation. “Fine. I’ll show you.”

She led them to her bedroom and unlocked the door, but she couldn't fathom what they’d even find. “What do you hope to see? Everything had already been scrubbed clean, the broken picture removed, the-”

“No need.” Damien pulled out a sheaf of paper. “I have a copy that one of my men sketched. Of course, seeing it in person helps-especially with figuring out some inconsistencies.”

She tensed and continued to do so as he started to gesture about the room.

“You say he had his back to you,  _ and  _ that you saw him pawing through your jewels. And yet-” He walked around the wall that cut halfway across the room, a semi-barrier between the door and her bed, to her dresser, her following behind. “I do find it difficult to believe that you could see him doing that through the  _ wall _ .”

“I walked around it, obviously.”

“Without him noticing your presence? The clatter of the door opening?”

“He was a bit distracted rummaging.” She said annoyed.

“Ah, of course.” Then he gestured to the far wall, to where the painting  _ had  _ hung. It still had the faint stain of blood on it-difficult to get everything out of the wood. “And that’s where you bashed his head against the wall?”

“Yes.”

“Quite a distance, from here to there. What did you do, throw him?” Damien muttered. “Well, then again, you probably did.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and kept narrowing them as he grilled her on the most infinitesimal details. Finally, she had enough. “Damien, why on earth are you going over this again and again? I’ve told you about the events! That’s how it happened!”

“Did they really?” Damien murmured, infuriatingly calmly. “Because your story is remarkably sparse on details. We’ve three different splotches of blood consistent with someone bleeding like a stuck pig, and yet no trail between them. The man’s body we recovered? His neck was neatly snapped,  _ not _ in the fall, the only other wounds were bruises and none of the kinds of wounds that would lead to him redecorating your interior with blood. You say he pulled a knife and you knocked it out of his hand immediately, but the knife we recovered was bloody  _ and  _ the painting here by the door was slashed.”

She gritted her teeth, stomach cold. “Enough. Leave my estate, and don’t come back unless you want my dogs sicced on you both.”

“We  _ know _ that you are _ - _ ! _ ” _

“Damien.” His companion said quietly. “Enough.”

He turned his black eyes on her, a pleading expression in them. “Orianna;  _ please _ help us. I know we’ve not seen each other because of our own... _ reasons _ , but this is very serious and it threatens all of  _[mullo](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mullo_\(vampire\))-” _

“I don’t  _ care  _ who it does or doesn't threaten. Out,  _ now _ .”

Damien made an irritated growl and looked about ready to shake her, but his companion put a hand on his arm, silencing him. The walk back to the doors was a quiet and awkward one, with her leading them to the front. She wasn't going to have them sneak off and skulk about the grounds, poking their noses into her affairs-

Before she even gets there, a guard is trotting across the courtyard towards them, her doorman trailing behind with an apologetic expression. “Captain! Ah, good thing I found you, the scouts...have…”

She froze. The guardsman froze.

Janne blinked. “...Louis?”

* * *

*If you go around the back of the house, you can actually find the body that's supposedly ‘the cintrian’, a man who’s been repeatedly described as having black hair and a beard. However...the body is bald and sans beard. It’s almost like the game devs  _ wanted _ me to pull this conspiracy bullshit.


	23. Bats in the walls

* * *

“Wonderful performance.”

She took his offered arm, and they wandered over to one of the tables. “The flattery isn't required for the job.”

“No, but I don’t mind. Think of it as an added bonus.” He handed her a heart-shaped box. “You know, I’ve always wondered how your kind is able to mimic talents on top of looks.”

“Some things are just as part of a person as freckles.” She murmured, opening it. “But some we can never mimic.” 

“Between you and me, it’s probably best that you  _ can’t  _ mimic some of our hostess’ more unique... _ features.”  _

She shuddered, remembering the way the woman had stared at her with a cold detached look, lingering on her neck. She distracted herself from those deeply uncomfortable thoughts by dabbing on the perfume to cover her doppler scent, and it was as eye-wateringly potent as always. Thankfully it faded to tolerable levels once she reached the changing room, letting herself and her ‘guest’ in. The mage Kalesti and  _ his  _ guest were already here. 

“Everything set then?” The Cintrian asked, taking his mask off.

The witcher and Kalesti nodded, the latter waving a hand and muttering a spell to start the pre-recorded show. 

Then all save for herself went out the balcony, the witcher rudely tearing off the door for a bridge between the one just outside and its neighbor. She watched them go, the witcher and cintrian first then the mage, who-not used to skulking-knocked over the flowerpot. The cintrian tisked at him, but this far away from the noisy party no one would hear the sound of a fight, much less a breaking flower pot, and the mage followed them with his dusty boots. She waited nervously, fiddling with her sleeves, until she finally heard the window above her squeak open.

“Lead our wolf in, little sheep.” Murmured Kalesti above her.

She nodded and trotted off, trying not to let the shakes get to her. She’d spent the last few months as Cecilia, enjoying her life in the spotlight after so long hiding as a beggar on the streets, but now that happy life was coming to an end as her theft of the singer’s life had finally been noticed. Her family-which had hushed up the daughter’s shameful death from overdose-was alerted to her somehow being alive and well in Toussaint. She’d been narrowly dodging the family’s ‘enforcers’ for weeks; and was going to relegate herself to once again being a nondescript stinking, unnoticeable beggar to shake them off. 

Was, however, until a man with a cintrian accent had cornered her and told her that she was perfect for a heist-a heist not just of a jewel, but of a life.

There was a  _ reason  _ dopplers didn’t imitate vampires. The wider world was unaware of their presence, but dopplers weren’t; there was no way they couldn't when they could wear the skins of anyone and any _ thing.  _ It was always a horrible shock to put on the face of some passerby and feel the alien mind that’s centuries old with a concept of the idea of endless centuries more. And not just that eternity, but her fellows, on the whole, were kind-cruelty was a difficult concept to embrace when you could wear the skin of the powerful one moment, and the skin of the powerless the next, with little but the thinnest of circumstances separating them. It bred a very unique kind of empathy.

Vampires were rarely, if ever, kind. 

They were also terrifyingly powerful, and keen-nosed. If it hadn't been for the blend of perfume made by the cintrian-who was an accomplished alchemist-their target would have sniffed her out right away. However, the cintrian had assured her that the perfume he’d made was formulated to cover her scent; both to not arouse the suspicions of Orianna, and the suspicions of the rest of her kind once she took the vampire’s skin as her own. Thankfully the vampire in question had few friends among her kind; vampires, on the whole, stayed on the periphery of civilization, and it was the rare exception that any did so much as take even a small role in it. Far more common was the occasional hooded figure passing Louis’ on the streets, the latter shrinking away in fear. Dopplers weren't on the menu, but that didn't mean vampires wouldn't kill them out of irritation or for entertainment, as only other dopplers would notice or mourn their deaths. And now, she was going up to one of them to steal their life.

To say she was ‘nervous’ was an understatement.

Thankfully, she’d always been a better actor than her cousin, and the perfume would cover up her doppler nature...and the stink of fear. She swallowed and stepped onto the patio. “See you’re enjoying the festival.”

The vampiress turned and gave Louis a small smile, her gaze lingering, as always, on her neck. “Oh, enjoyable indeed, but better with your presence.”

Louis waved away the flattery, and starts her role of...well, she wouldn't call it ‘seduction’. On the surface that’s what it looks like; Orianna had expressed an interest in her from practically the day that she started her career in Toussaint, constantly sending requests to have her perform. This particular vampire is, by all carefully-gathered accounts, a consummate connoisseur. The vampire wants only the finest vintages to sample, whether sweet, delicate varieties from the youngest of sources, to something with a bit of repute, like a legendary singer. Even if it involves a soiree and luring her target in with fine wine and the red gleam of mental domination in her eyes to get her to the bedroom where Orianna can feed in undisturbed privacy. Louis can only be glad that it doesn't work on dopplers and she's in full control of her mind when she's standing in the center of the room, watching the wolf walk in.

She’s  _ doubly  _ glad she’s got enough control to dodge out of the way when everything goes pear-shaped.

Orianna’s  _ almost  _ too focused on her to hear the whisper of noise from the concealed witcher, but she managed to put her hands up to block his attack and even grab him. She hurls him against the wall, and the illusion that the mage has put on him breaks as he slams against it, blood spattering the wall from where he’s cut himself on the glass shards of the picture frame.

Alerted to the fact that this was an ambush, the claws and teeth come out. She flicks her eyes around, looking for more targets, and spots the mage by the window. She attacks him next, a blur of mist that he can’t target with a spell, and his neck makes a horrid wet snap as she twists his head around. He slumps and the body falls out the window, but he provides enough of a distraction for the witcher to get up and try attacking her again. Not enough for him to be successful though; he’s strong enough to slam her head against the candle sconce on the wall but it does nothing to disorientate her, and she’s able to stab him in the gut with her claws, blood splattering all over the windowsill. He hadn’t been able to wear his heavy armor to get in, so there’s no protection for him. He yells in pain and she’s easily able to mist away again and go for the last person in the room that’s not cowering along the floorboards: the cintrian.

The witcher follows-the two wounds he’d suffered already stopped bleeding-and she’s morbidly fascinated by that under all the panic-not that it helps much, as she just stabs him again, snarling ‘ _ why won’t you just stay down!’  _ in frustration, returning her attention to the alchemist. He’s  _ extraordinarily  _ lucky in that his frantic swipe with the knife-the only weapon they’d been able to sneak in-actually connects, both with her and the painting. They’d taken what small, silver-coated weapons they could find on the estate they’d been staying at, and it works as the witcher had said they would. She hisses and draws back, and finally,  _ finally,  _ the witcher is able to stab her for once, the silver needle of the syringe sinking into her. He follows her down, pumping the silver nitrate into her, the first of the two doses. One to keep her down for now, another for when they pick her up from the morgue.

At last she’s down, ‘dead’ for all intents and purposes, and Louis unglued herself from the wall. The witcher is grimacing in pain even though the wounds have closed, which...really shouldn’t be possible, but she’s not an authority on witcher physiology. She’s no idea what the potion is that the alchemist gives him either, but he gulps it down like it’s nectar. In moments, even the ugly gash on his head is nothing more than crusted blood and the holes in his shirt reveal bloodied but whole skin. He looks a sight but now that he’s as good as new a change of clothes and a cleanup is all that he needs to be able to walk out with no one the wiser.

“...Now what?” Louis asked.

“The same plan as we had, with some...alterations.” The cintrian waved away her concern. “A thief got in, you caught him trying to grab the jewel; you got into a fight with him, and managed to push him out the window. While it’s a pity we lost the mage-such a useful man-he may actually be a boon for you. With the thief dead, there will be no need for the guard to ask any other questions. It will be a neatly-contained case.”

“Now-” He said turning to Orianna, “-To do sleight of hand with the singer and the vampire. Gaetan? Please do the honors.”

“Honored to be the fucking muscle.” He growled, hefting Orianna over his shoulder.

“Well, I certainly didn't hire you for the  _ brains.”  _ The Cintrian said, amused. “Chop chop! Our doppler needs to get back to their party.”

The cat witcher gives him a glare and walks off, easily hefting the limp body down to the changing room. There's a bracelet in his pocket that he’ll slip on it to change the appearance of the vampire; that and a slit throat will finally destroy the career of the singer, shaking off the enforcers. 

He turned back to Louis. “And now, the  _ pièce de résistance _ …”

She’s been carefully observing her target for the better part of two weeks, so it’s easy to slip into the vampire’s skin. It still doesn't feel  _ natural,  _ not like taking on a human or elf, but it’s doable. She shudders, and then it’s done. 

“There we are.” He says, pleased. “Now, let me accompany you out, and then I’ll slip out later. If anyone asks, say that I was a... _ gentleman  _ friend of yours.”

She lets him take her arm, but she can’t help but ask one last time.

“Are...are you certain I won’t have to worry about her?”

“If all goes well, you won’t have to worry about her,  _ or  _ any of her friends for that matter.”

* * *

Regis sits there, stunned, when Orianna-well, Louis-winds down with their tale. One of his kind, taken down with such ease, in her own house, feet away from a full party. And not only taken down,  _ captured,  _ to be studied at leisure by an alchemist that knew what she was and what he was going to be doing with her. He has to keep his hands clenched into fists to keep them from shaking.

Louis, too, is shaking. “Please keep this quiet; I can’t afford to have them after me if-”

Damien scowls. “ ‘Quiet’? You snuck into an estate under false pretenses for the express purpose of stealing a valuable jewel  _ and  _ to assault and kidnap a citizen of Toussaint!”

Louis looks baffled by the last bit. “B-but she’s a monster!”

“So are you, technically.”

“No captain.” She said, withdrawing and looking deeply shaken. “A monster in every sense of the word. Do you know  _ why  _ she keeps an orphanage?”

Damien looks taken aback by that. “She...I knew she had one but it didn't occur to me that-”

“Damien,” Regis says gently, putting a hand on his arm. “While humans might not have a monopoly on altruism, neither do they have a monopoly on callousness. Perhaps she didn't stalk vagrants in the dead of night leaving their drained bodies behind, but she preyed on the most vulnerable that were too young to have a say in anything, with only her between them and the streets to ensure their compliance.”

“She likes to treat them like pets.” The doppler murmured, gaze going into the middle distance “Doting on them. Having them adore her. She likes the way the blood tastes when they…”

The doppler shudders and pulls out of it, looking sick. Damien too, looks horrified. “She’s nice to them because  _ it makes them tastier?!” _

“Yes,” Regis murmurs, deeply uncomfortable. “Orianna is something of a...connoisseur.”

Damien swore, disgusted. “Tell me you’ve not supped on them!”

Louis looked revolted by the thought. “Gods, no! I only visited them-oooh, Janne, you should have seen the place. Just a rickety barn with only the barest of essentials required to keep her little... _ herd  _ healthy-”

Regis swallows, remembering reading  _ ‘The most important aspect of raising  _ _ human _ _ livestock is to provide the herd with conditions that, on the one hand, guarantee their survival, but, on the other hand, do not extend too far beyond the minimum needed for that survival.’  _

“-They didn't even have any  _ toys  _ Janne! Just rocks and sticks and a dirt backyard! It was so pitiable I ran out and dumped heaps of stuffed animals and rocking horses and bags of marbles there and they didn't look happy-they looked  _ terrified _ . She’s only sweet to them just before feeding on them, and since I was giving them so much they thought-they  _ thought _ -”

She shuddered and put her face in her hands. Janne looked deeply concerned about the state of their cousin, doing their best to comfort them. Regis pulls Damien aside while the two dopplers huddle together.

“Damien, may I suggest something?”

“Of course Doctor.”

“Louis is an accomplice in a crime, true, but a mostly unwilling one as far as I can tell. Obviously, you are obligated to incarcerate them for their role in the theft and kidnapping.” He said. “However, in the scheme of things, the doppler is the lesser evil; far better to leave Louis here to continue to care for the children, than to remove them and leave the orphans to the mercy of the city.”

Damien made a face. “Damn it, you’ve got a point.” He sighed, thinking. “...Well, we may still be able to salvage this. From what I can guess, they must have left the doppler in charge of her estate for a reason. What do you think the odds are that Syanna would call on a high-ranking noble in the upper power circles that has a reason to be ingratiated to her?”

“Ah, very good observation captain. Yes, it’s quite possible our heiress would call on them for their influence and funds.”

“Exactly.” He turned back to the two dopplers. “Louis; I have a proposition for you.”

The doppler eyed them cautiously. “...Yes?”

“You are in a unique position to potentially be of use to the duchy. The people behind this may come calling for favors; I want you to alert me if they should. I’ll have a mage leave you a means of contacting me day or night should they start to murmur about repaying them or threatening you with blackmail.”

The doppler’s eyes widened. “You...you think they might?”

“They know who you are and that they helped you. It’s likely they might try to use your wealth and influence for their own means. If they do, I want your assistance in capturing them. If you accept, you will be allowed to remain as our newest owner of the estate, rather than taking a ride to the local prison.” He narrowed his eyes at the doppler. “And don’t think we can’t track you. There are  _ ways  _ to find a doppler.”

“Yeah, I can attest to that.” Janne agreed, grimacing, then turned to Louis. “What do you think cuz? It’s a good bargain. Won’t get better!” 

Louis thought that over, then nodded. That done Damien got the statement signed-the  _ real  _ one-and they walked out, Terrance trailing behind after giving his cousin a hug and a reminder to stay safe. Out of the estate at last, they both turned to the doppler.

“Think she’ll be okay? These people are nasty.” Janne said, worried.

“I doubt they’ll harm her-ah, them-” Regis started, stumbling over the pronouns.

Janne gave the vampire an amused look. “Relax doc, we may not mash bits like you do, but you can call us by the piping that we’re wearing at the time.”

“...Right. Ah, she’s a very valuable resource; so long as they’re unaware of our knowledge of her, they won’t harm her. And then, after all this is done, everyone that could harm her will be in jail.”

“Well, possibly with the exception of the kidnapped vampire,” Damien murmured, grimacing. “I don’t know what  _ exactly _ they wanted her for, but I doubt it’s anything pleasant. Or...survivable.”

Regis felt cold. Perhaps he’d had his eyes opened to her cruelty after having his own revelation, but even so he wouldn't wish the kind of things she’s certain to suffer on her. There was such a thing as ‘punishment proportionate to the crime’, and having read the notes on Thomas’ research he knows just what she’s in for...or already experiencing. And then, as soon as they extracted what they needed, a vial of venom to put her down.

_ If Dettlaff hadn't been sent to the bottom of the lake, would that have been his fate? To be captured and used for raw materials, and then put down like a farm animal after outliving its usefulness? _

He swallowed and shuddered, trying not to think about it. To distract himself he addressed the doppler again. “So, Janne, now that’s settled, didn't you have something you needed to say?”

He nodded. “Yeah, come to fetch you back to the estate. They’re getting everything ready for the attack.”

Once they arrived, a war council was called; Geralt pulled them, Yennefer, and-to Regis’ surprise-Ciri. She’d just come in while they’d been gone, having gathered an extra contingent of nilfgaardian troops to assist with storming the castle.

“Morvran says ‘hi’ by the way,” Ciri said to Geralt, smirking.

“Still miffed about not being allowed into Kaer Morhen is he?” Yennefer said airily.

Geralt scowled. “Didn't trust the weasley bastard. Still don’t.”

“Well, at least this time around we’ve no need to worry about him trying to grab Ciri the moment the fight’s over. Now that he’s gotten a chance to learn just what he’s gotten into, I’m certain he’d rather she stayed here.” The sorceress said, amused.

“I don’t care what he says, I do  _ not  _ need a vacation,” Ciri growled.

“Not even for my moonshine?” Regis wheedled.

“...Maybe I’ll stick around a bit after.”

Geralt gave him a smile of gratitude behind her back, and he inclined his head graciously. Everyone sobered quickly after that though, all of them hovering over the impromptu map as they planned their attack. 

“We may wish to re-evaluate our plans. I have some bad news.” Damien announced.

“Just what we need.” Ciri sighed. “What is it, captain?”

“Damien brought me to inspect the body of ‘the Cintrian’, only to discover it wasn't our man.” Regis started, and went into the discoveries of the day. At the end of it, Yennefer was looking deeply concerned.

“So, they have a true higher vampire at their disposal,” Yennefer murmured.

“For the past few days, yes. I fear-”

“That they’ve had time to make more witchers? It’s possible.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Whilst you were away solving that mystery, I took the time to look over the notes on the research. It’s missing quite a few details, but from what I can tell it should take at least a week to prepare everything-but considering they’ve been so resourceful for damned near everything  _ else,  _ they were probably already prepared sans the final...ingredient.”

Geralt grimaced, giving Regis an apologetic look. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to rescue your old friend doc. The process to extract and render mutations is…kinda rough. Even for one of your own.”

“Not sure if she even deserves a rescue,” Damien said, disgusted. “She keeps an orphanage as her personal wine cooler, and she is the connoisseur  _ cultivating  _ the tastiest blood.” 

Regis shifted, feeling deeply uncomfortable. He’d known of Orianna’s...predilections for years but he’d never spoken out against her cruelty; her exacting a bloody price for food and shelter. He’s ashamed to admit he’d basically done the equivalent of sticking his fingers in his ears and humming, clinging to the idea of his hands being tied when it came to her. And, if he must admit, cowardly-he doubted she’d stop with just some firm words. Nothing save for threats could possibly work and if she called his bluff…

_ Yes, you’re very brave when the people of this little estate were under immediate and violent threat and you've been backed into a corner, but so are rats.  _ He thinks, swallowing bile. Geralt gives him a worried look, but he refuses to meet the man’s eye.

“Hmm, but we may still want to keep her in mind-and hope she’ll be well contained. I doubt she’ll be interested in discerning friend from foe if she’s still alive when we storm the castle.” The commander-Solomon, he’d come with the extra troops-commented. 

“They must, or the scouts would have reported a bloodbath. My guess? They found the same kind of cage we did for Dettlaff or the mage they had made a magical one.” Geralt added.

Solomon nodded. “Very likely. I’ll alert the men not to tamper with mage circles or trust any red-headed women in cages.” 

That done, Damien and Solomon went over their plan of attack, as they had the kind of experience required to kill or capture an enemy force.

“Geralt, you’ll be in the first wave; but in the middle of our men,” Solomon stated. “We can’t waste you cutting down ordinary mercenaries if their witchers in the keep, but you need to be close at hand to take them down just in case they’ve been able to make a few.”

“Even if they didn't, they still have Gaetan.” Geralt muttered, checking over his arms and armor. “Think I’m the only one qualified to put a sword through his gut before he runs off.  _ Again.” _

“You might want to try beheading him instead; Orianna didn't have much success with that,” Regis added. 

“Just might.” Geralt growled.

“Yennefer, I assume you’ve some battle magic? I know you fought at sodden.” Solomon inquired.

“Quite; mostly ranged, however. Area effects, that sort of thing. I can call fire down on them; it’s explosive and very destructive. Anyone not caught in the initial blast is at the very least going to be blinded and deafened.”

“Ah. How far…?”

“Good two hundred feet, but I need to be able to see approximately where my attacks will land for any amount of precision.”

“My scout reported a ridge just outside of the keep; it’s exposed though. Might make you a target if they have mages.”

She sniffed. “I’ll manage. I can call up a shield for myself if need be.”

“Good.” Solomon hummed. “Phillipa is already there; so far she’s been playing mule with portals transporting men and supplies we need, but she’s stated she has plenty of short-range effects. Our men can sneak in from the backdoor and get into the gatehouse, and as soon as you light everything up then we can let the doors open to let everyone else in.”

The discussion continued on, and Regis did his best to keep up, but he had no head for strategy. He couldn't even win in a game of cards; much less chime in with suggestions or questions. He knows he could be a great boon to the attack, but only if coordinated with the myriad mages and footsoldiers. He was better at organizing nurses and other healers in field hospitals as he’d done a stint or two in them before settling for the life of a rural barber-surgeon, but he’d be damned if he’d let his considerable strengths and means go to waste when he could assist in taking down enemies and preventing losses among their men.

“And where would you like me, then?” He asked.

Solomon turned to him with a puzzled look, like he’d forgotten he was here at the council. “Ah...I know you're a doctor, but I don't think you’re suited for first-line response-”

Geralt stood and cut in. “Regis, talk to you outside.”

Confused, he followed the witcher out. It was still midday so people were out and busy with work in the fields and houses, but there was a quiet corner on the veranda. Geralt sat, and after a moment’s consideration, so did he. They sat for a few minutes, his friend not meeting his eyes, looking increasingly uncomfortable, until he finally spoke.

“...You’re not coming.”

Regis blinked. “Don’t I have a say in that?”

“No.” He scowled, trying to look authoritative. 

It didn't work of course; Regis wasn't about to be told what to do. “I would very much like to see you try to stop me.”

“I know I can’t, I still don’t want you to go.”

“I’m touched that you want to protect me, but I’ve as good of a reason as anyone else to be there.”

“I  _ know-” _

“And I refuse to sit idle when I could be of help-”

“Goddamnit Regis-”

“-And not just as a field surgeon; I’m worth  _ twenty _ soldiers. If my presence could save the lives of you or your men I-”

“I don’t want another Stygga!”

Heads turned at the noise; and even Regis was momentarily stunned. Geralt  _ never  _ raised his voice above a low rasp, and that was as much of a surprise as the grip the Geralt has on his arms. It’s painfully tight, even for a vampire. The witcher glared at the onlookers, sending them scurrying, and then let him go.

“...Ah. So that’s what this is about then?” Regis says, not unkindly. 

The witcher sighs heavily. “More than that. This might be worse than Stygga, if that’s even possible. They’ve got the one thing there that can end you.  _ Permanently.” _

He’d...not exactly forgotten about that, but he’d been trying hard not to think about it. Even just the remembered scent of that vial made his instincts tense. He doesn’t...he doesn't want to... 

_ Coward. _

He swallows.

_ You and your companions are all risking death by attacking the castle as well; am I really any different in that respect? Why should I be the exception? _

-Is what he  _ should  _ say, but he suddenly can’t speak, damn him, even as Geralt places his hands on his shoulders like he can fuse Regis to the bench if he presses hard enough, make him incapable of leaving, of getting hurt. Of  _ dying. _

“Stay here. Take care of BB, Jerome, and...and Dettlaff. They need you here.”

“I don’t want to hide behind my patients.” And gods damn it, it’s still not what he  _ needs to say _ -

-Not like Geralt doesn't already know what’s going on in his head, somehow. He’s not as oblivious as he appears apparently. “You’re not hiding, Regis.”

It certainly feels like it, despite the perfectly practical reasons for him to stay out of harm's way. Perhaps Basil would be fine without his attention, but Jerome is an experiment made by a man with questionable goals and questionable means and there’s no telling what the long-term effects will be. And Dettlaff…

_ Earlier today he’d tried to do something, anything, for the other vampire. He’d brought down his little box of belongings and another cot; Dettlaff had shredded the one he’d been given. He’d hoped the tools would give him something to do; he’d always liked doing repairs and carving, though drawing would probably always be his first love. Regis had always marveled at the wonderful repairs he’d done to his little cottage, the small details he’d managed to add with nothing more than the knife he always had on his person. It was like a little treasure hunt, finding tiny shallow relief carvings of things like moths and bats and crows. Rough and impressionistic, the kinds of things done with only part of your brain present. In the early days wobbling around in his cottage, he’d gotten his exercise in trying to find new ones. He’s still not sure he’s found them all. _

_ Dettlaff hadn't even let him in, snarling at the door, eye silver and full of madness, and so far beyond his reach he may as well have been on the moon...or the depths of hell. Hell for the other vampire, and everyone around him. _

_ He’s only ever been good with physical ailments, not mental ones. To tell the truth, he’s always felt woefully unprepared to handle such malaise; curing ulcers is cut and dry, everything else...well. All he could do to pass the bowl of gruel through the bars, feeling tired and resigned as it splashed onto his tunic when Dettlaff threw it. _

_ “Should have left you!” He’d screamed. “Left you in that damned void! Let you scream and shake all by yourself as you did to me-” _

_ -and it was a horrible, horrible feeling to find that he  _ **_did_ ** _ take hints, that he was more perceptive than he’d given him credit- _

_ -But he certainly didn't take apologies, not even with begging or tears. The only thing he does take is the coat from the box, a gift from Rhena, curling up on the floor with it around him, deaf to anything Regis says. _

“...Try to come back in one piece, Geralt.”  _ I don’t think I can take care of him alone,  _ he doesn't say, but maybe Yennefer isn't the only one that can read minds, because his friend gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Regis takes a breath, trying not to think about it. “When...when will the attack start?”

“Tonight probably. Everything has already been set up, the troops moved in, plans laid. We need to move fast; the more time that passes, the more time she might have to make…”

Regis gives him a puzzled look at the pause. “...Witchers?”

He makes a face. “Don't...don’t call them that. We’re...maybe we don’t always act like it, but we were made to be protectors, to kill  _ monsters,  _ even if those monsters are human. They aren’t witchers, they’re  _ weapons _ .”

Regis put a calming hand on the witcher’s arm. “I cannot help but agree. Your ceaseless striving to protect people from monsters-and indeed, protecting ‘monsters’ from those that are truly monstrous-has always been one of your most admirable qualities that I’ve treasured from the moment I started traveling with you.”

Geralt gave him an appreciative smile, even if it was a little worn at the edges. “Thanks; nice to hear that sometimes.” He paused then, looking thoughtful. “I always wondered though, why  _ did  _ you decide to travel with us, huh?”

“A...variety of factors, honestly.” He said carefully. “I...suppose loneliness was one. I’d been spending many years of my life as an itinerant barber-surgeon, having to move from one place to another after a decade or so to avoid suspicion-”

“Didn’t exactly avoid suspicion with us either.”

“No, but...I hoped that assisting you all in your desperate quest would enable our group to accept my true nature when it inevitably revealed itself.” He said, then smiled at Geralt. “Which worked, surprisingly enough.”

“Pretty risky gamble. I could have attacked you.”

“I was willing to take any risk at the time.” He says, and what he says next just...slowly spools out in a quiet way, like a thread being unraveled. He’s tired, depressed, and that’s to blame for letting go in all honesty, even if this is just the  _ worst  _ time to do so. If he’d been any less punch-drunk from lack of sleep he would have been happy to let Geralt go to his attack on the castle (even if was possibly to his death) without ever knowing the gritty details. 

“For what? The company of a not-nilfgaardian, an air-headed bard, a grumpy archer, and an even grumpier witcher?”

“ _ Absolution,  _ I suppose.” He paused, wavering; perhaps some little bit of self-preservation kicking and hoping Geralt would start in with some comment to save him from himself. The witcher remains silent though, one hand resting on his shoulder, some sort of reassurance, not that he’s paying much attention.

“I...understated just how horrifying it is what I’ve done, choosing to frame it as teenage capers but the bald truth is-” He took a deep breath “-I  _ killed and ate people,  _ Geralt. Innocent people; as if them being guilty of anything would make that any better than the horror that it is. Men, women,  _ children.  _ Perhaps I had an excuse-after all, I’d been raised to view humans as nothing more than animals, not  _ truly _ sentient. Bright perhaps, for a monkey, but certainly  _ inferior  _ to vampires.”

He snorted. “Of course, even a particularly dim-witted vampire could see that as falsehood if they bothered to interact with humans outside of abducting them for food or study; to give them the chance to exhibit anything other than the kind of glazed terror that any frail creature would display when taken by such alien and terrifying things as my kind. That was, of course, discouraged; it was disgusting to wallow in the kind of physicality you mortals occupy, and not a plane I visited even  _ after  _ my first recovery. It wasn't until the humanist showed me that the mortal races of this place aren't mere animals, but people like myself regardless of whether they can mist or the length of their lives that I-”

The full-body shudder started somewhere from the end of his spine and made him curl in on himself. “-That I realized what a  _ monster _ I’d been.”

Geralt lets him shake through it until he feels...well, he’ll  _ never  _ get over the horror of his epiphany, but he supposes that having centuries to deal with it-

-and that he  _ had no other choice  _ but living with it-

-has helped. 

They’re quiet for a while, Regis trying to calm himself with the mundanity of the estate. People washing linens, trimming the vines, playing a card game under the shade. Geralt just leaves him alone for this, that strange sort of quietness that the witcher possesses settling in. Regis almost jumps when he speaks.

“Remember Vesimer telling me about a contract he went on once.”* He said quietly. “The usual. People were disappearing; body parts were being found on the seashore, tales of people being lured off and snatched in the night. He thought it might be sirens until one man survived an attack coming back from the fair described his attackers. He was able to use the blood trail from the man’s wife that had been dragged off her horse to finally find the culprits.

Pretty horrific sight in there. They kept live people to feed on later; Pickled limbs in barrels, rendered blood for puddings. And inside he found the whole clan of them, all ages. They lived in a cave whose entrance was covered by the high tide and only went out at night to find new victims. They weren't sirens.”

Regis nodded. “Vampires.”

“Humans.” Geralt corrected, and the vampire whipped his head up to stare. Geralt matched him, stare for stare for a long moment, then broke it as he stared into the middle distance as he told the rest.

“He killed the parents and any of the adult children that were old enough that tried to fight back. The young children were...pieced out, as farmhands and adoptions. What boys that didn't get picked out were brought to Kaer Morhen.” He paused, considering. “Most were too young to remember, except for a 12-year-old girl. He only learned later when he was in the area years after the event. She…”

“...Killed herself?”

Geralt nodded. “When she was sixteen. Rumors after her death abounded. That she was hanged for professing ‘an unnatural desire for human flesh’ and other shit. Personally, I think it was suicide. You don’t come out unscathed from something like that.” He paused. “...Only thing she left behind was her black cat, Midnight. Vesimer dragged that thing all the way to the castle because it would've gotten stoned otherwise. Mangled the fuck outta his fingers.”

Regis looked at his own fingers, each tipped with a point, so different from Geralt’s blunt ones, speaking softly. “...I considered that. Only idly, of course; it’s simply not an option for us. But I’ve learned to...live with it, over the centuries. It was either that, or double down on my ignorance, and pretend I’d never seen it.”

Geralt covered his hand in his, carefully. “...You had the courage to look into the light and keep your eyes open. Others of your kind-like Orianna-clearly didn't.”

“No.” He rasped. “She could see the evidence in front of her, but that would mean admitting she was a monster; a great and terrible revelation to bear. She chose to keep her eyes closed. I think...I think she fears what she might see if she really  _ looked.  _ I...could have so easily been her. I  _ was  _ her.”

Geralt gave his hand a squeeze, and Regis drew in a sigh, letting the conversation go. He didn't want to make the comparisons, it made him sick.

“And...Dettlaff?” Geralt asked gently.

“Dettlaff...was lucky. He was younger; by the time he was old enough to have engaged in it, our bloodiest era was on a rapid decline. He had never seen nor participated in the real depths of atrocities that our kind did when we first arrived here.” Regis gave him a rueful look. “Of course, he was still raised to consider humans inferior- If not food anymore, then ‘not worth your time’, though he is not as possessed of the...frankly racist views others of my kind have. Which is a...surprise, though I suppose Syanna had something to do with that. Even if he’d only seen humans as animals, he could not bring himself to be overly cruel to them; unlike...”

He stops, mouth open. He’d...not exactly been cruel-if feeding on them and murdering didn't already count-but he’d seen things done by others that hadn’t been-

“Small blessings, I guess.” Geralt says, thankfully interrupting his thoughts. “Maybe sticking around here will help with-”

Before either of them can talk more Yennefer comes out, cups in hand. She hands both to him and Geralt, keeping one for herself. “Drink up while you can; we’re going out to the site in an hour or so. The attack is slated for nightfall; everything is pretty much ready with all the men and supplies in place.”

The witcher nodded and stood. He looked down at the doctor with a hint of concern in his eyes. “You’ll be okay here, Regis?”

“I will be.” He took a sip, sighing happily. “...Though I believe this will help me on my way. Thank you Yennefer.”

* * *

*Vesimer’s story is based on an Irish legend of Sawney Bean and his horrible family.


	24. Bad moon rising

* * *

Jerome is currently sitting alone on his little truckle bed, trying not to think.

He’s trying not to think because if he starts thinking he won’t be able to  _ stop,  _ his brain will just spin along and fall into the dark, dirty cracks like it’s been doing the last couple of days. He’d swum up out of it when that bleached witcher came along to tell him about his brother screaming in the cellar, but that meant he was awake enough for everything to  _ really register.  _ What had happened to him, what had happened to Dettlaff, what had happened to the  _ school- _

_ Why? Why the fuck was he horrified at the loss of the school? He'd have torn the place down himself, that place that took him away from his family-nevermind his father tortured him, he never would have gone insane if he hadn’t lived through the ‘death’ of his son-but even as part of him rejoices at it being wiped from the earth part of him can’t help but see Keldar trying to shield the youngsters under his own body while the mountain came down- _

_ Even though Keldar had put the needles in his veins, just like his father had, and he’d loved them both too- _

“Oh, for the love of-”

Jerome jerked his head up to see...Basil? Yeah, Basil, the other patient behind the screen, scrabbles for something.

The aforementioned majordomo sighed, wiggling his fingers. One arm was still held fast to his side with bandages, and while it didn't hurt nearly as bad after the assistance of lady Yennefer it still aches something  _ fierce,  _ and being on such a low dose of painkillers wasn't helping. He’s able to lie on his side, his stomach, and if he’s careful, stand up for short periods so he can at least go over to use the chamberpot rather than relying on a bedpan. He’s careful not to fuss with the bandages as he’s been trained to follow doctor’s orders, but it’s difficult to do everything one-handed, and he tends to drop things, like his fork. Which he’d just kicked under his cot in trying to grab it.

Jerome shuffled over, and to his surprise, got under the cot and fished it out for him. Basil took it with no small amount of trepidation, as the only exposure he’d had to the man so far had been him trying to bite Regis’ arm off or yelling obscenities. Right now he seemned...quiet at least; if he had to place his expression he’d say the griffin witcher looked maudlin as he stared blankly at the fork he was holding like a shield in front of him.

“...Thank you.” Basil said awkwardly, and that seemned to snap the other man out of...whatever state he’d been in.

“Anytime.” He mumbled, and they stood there in mouth-drying silence until the witcher spoke again, startling him.

“...Sorry. About...yelling. At you.” He said stiffly. “And throwing things at you.”

“Well, I imagine your... _ situation _ left little room for rational behaviour.” Basil said just as stiffly.

Another silence.

_ Oh, what the hell.  _ “...Do you want to play gwent?”

Regis found them, some odd-hours later, slapping down cards with vigor. When that foul mouth wasn't accompanied with real threats of violence or flying silverware it was rather entertaining; especially since he was absolutely  _ abysmal _ at cards.

“I didn’t know it was possible to be this bad without it being on purpose.”

“Fuck off cueball. This game is ass backwards-who the fuck called the king of nilfgaard ‘emperor’?”

“Anyone who knows anything?”

“Nilfgard doesn’t have a fucking emperor you delusional cockleech!”

“Evening gentlemen.” The doctor said with a smile. “See you two are getting along.”

“He’s fleecing me for every non-existent cent I have. If it keeps going like this and I’m gonna have to suck off every lord and lady from here to the pontar to pay him off.”

Basil looked very smug. “Yes, we’re getting along marvously.”

Regis chuckled and walked past them to get a refill of coffee, addressing the griffin witcher while he poured a cup. “How are you doing then, hm?”

“Better. Don’t feel like I’d gotten my soul half-sucked outta me by a wraith anymore.” He put down a seige card, which immediately got nullified by a weather card. “Son of a goatfucking hedge whore!”

“Mmm, I expect you’ll heal your lesions eventually. It seems that you’ve been able to heal most everything else; though for some odd reason a chunk of your ear nor the tip of your pinky has grown back. Were those injuries you suffered on the path, by any chance?”

“Yeah; werewolf did ‘em both.” He looked up at Regis with a curious expression. “You think that all the scars and injuries from before I…”

He stops, Basil frowns as he sees the man across from him go...blank. There's not a better word to describe it, and it’s eerie and most discomforting. The witcher jerks out of it, looking deeply uncomfortable as he turns to stare at his cards, face creasing as he seems to try to pick up his train of thought on what card he was going to place next. There's another awkward pause, until Regis breaks it with an obvious attempt at changing the subject.

“Ah, Basil, would you mind me having a look? I believe you’re due for a change in bandages.”

“Of course doctor.” 

Regis peels everything back while he lies on his stomach, the witcher helping a little as he knows how to do bandage changes as well. “How does it feel? Has the pain been getting worse?”

“No, just aches. And it’s itchy of course.”

“Good, good. It’s healing nicely with no sign of infection; I daresay you shall make a full recovery my friend, though your range of mobility will be somewhat limited.”

Basil gave him a worried look, and the doctor was quick to reassure him. 

“Oh, nothing that would overtly impact your quality of life; but you won’t be able to lift particularly heavy things with this arm nor hold it out straight from your side. You’ll retain most of your mobility though.” Regis patted everything down, re-wrapping his arm. “Thankfully no major nerves or vessels were hit, so the damage is mostly reversible.”

“I suppose I got off lightly.” He mused. “Better than some I suppose; that poor mage probably will never get the use of her leg back so I’d heard. Where is she, by the way?”

“Recovering in her own home.” 

“And Dettlaff? I do hope he’s doing better, the poor thing.” He said, shuffling the cards.

The amount of sedatives the man had been on was...impressive. At first he’d thought Dettlaff had suffered some major damage, but considering he’d been able to walk on his own once he’d regained consciousness he wondered. And the way he’d call for ‘Rhena’ sometimes…well, it wasn't uncommon to see refugees from the latest wars in Toussiant. Although they had occurred three years ago and many had ample time to settle down here and live new lives, not all were so lucky. He wouldn't be surprised to learn Dettlaff was one of those poor souls that had lost everything including his wife, and that his close friend Regis had brought him here for the explicit purpose of caring for him in the restful toussaint countryside. 

He looks up to see the doctor's face is deeply pained, his gaze falling into the middle distance. Basil and Jerome trade looks. 

“Doc,” The griffin witcher states, “...let’s go outside, huh?”

Outside, Jerome turns to the doctor. “How is he?”

At the look on his face, Jerome grimaced. “That bad, eh?”

“I...I don’t know what to do.” He said haltingly. “I’ve studied so many fields in relation to alchemy; make breakthroughs that have become standard practice in medicine. I’m as learned as they come when it comes to the physical side of things, but this? I know so precious little; no tomes to research, nor experiences to draw on. And what’s more, I’ve come to realize that I know just as little about Dettlaff himself, despite having a blood connection with him, perhaps the closest our kind can have save for linking our minds together directly.”

“And yet,” He said quietly, “I feel like I barely know him.”

Jerome blinked, taken aback. “W-but the  _ neam obligaţie,  _ thats...I know how deep a tie that is. Hell, technically you’re part Dettlaff at this point, a literal half brother. You’ll pass that on to your  _ children _ -”

“An enduring bond, both mental and physical, yes. But it does have its limits. Especially given that he wasn't exactly...forthcoming concerning information about himself.” Regis gave him a curious look. “...He never mentioned you, for one.” 

“He-I wasn't being a good…” Jerome looked away, ashamed. “...I’d started drifting away from him. When I died he probably thought I’d left for good. He would have every right to forget about me.”

“...May I ask why?” The doctor said gently.

Jerome’s not sure he can tell the good doctor that  _ he’d burned people alive, oh god, what kind of sick fuck  _ **_does_ ** _ that, and drags thier little brother into it- _

_ No, no, can’t fucking think about that, stay in the present, no slipping off the deep end. Not yet. _

“...Rather not say.” He takes a breath under Regis’ concerned gaze and moves on. “Look, just to give you some kind of assurance, it’s not because he didn't trust you that he didn't tell you these things _.  _ Hell, maybe he will tell you in time; that blood bond...it’s an intrinsic thing. It goes above and beyond any other kind of bond that’s made just from spending time with each other and talking; he can  _ feel  _ your reactions. I mean, I’m sure you noticed how he has trouble reading people, right?”

“I am aware, yes. He’s always had that difficulty; I remember it being the case even when we were children.” Regis put a hand to his chin. “You think...because he doesn't have to rely on trying to interpret my words and expressions alone and has the benefit of  _ knowing  _ how I feel that he may be more comfortable around me?”

“Yeah, that's about it. I mean, I always got around it by being as blunt as a troll's club when it comes to things; no subtext or white lies. But that comes to me naturally, we witchers...we’re raised differently than most. I’m sure you’ve noticed that with Geralt.”

Regis smiled a little. “Subtly is not his strong point, no.”

Jerome snorted. “The whole lot of us are fuckin’ bricks when it comes to emotions. But to get back to my earlier point, it’s not an issue of trust. It’s just difficult for him to talk about it; it opens old wounds, you know?”

Regis digested this, silent for a long moment.

“...Well he certainly doesn't trust me now.” He said quietly. 

“Yeah, this is all just a big goddamn clusterfuck of a thing isn't it.” Jerome sighed, rubbing his temples. “I can even sorta see  _ why  _ Dettlaff would think you’re talking out of your ass about Rhena-ah,  _ Syanna- _ **because** it sounds just like an insane conspiracy. Her being a lost princess conspiring to take over the toussaint throne? Sounds downright ludicrous.”

Regis heaved a sigh of his own. “And there no way for me to reason with him in his...current state of mind _ -” _

“What, you mean how he’s insane enough to go on a killing spree?” He drawled, unable to keep the note of bitterness out of his voice. He loved his brother but- _ one step forward, two gore-filled steps back. _

He grimaced, trying not to let that anger crest. It’d gotten harder, caring for him alone after Dalia and Tasar died,  _ especially now, with the needles in his brain- _

_ Don’t think. _

Regis was speaking again. “-You think?”

He jerked. “Think what?”

“That you could...pull him out of that state? You are his friend, perhapes-”

“Don’t believe so doc. He’ll pull out of it, given time.”

_ What if he doesn't? _

“...What if he doesn't?” Regis said quietly. 

He remembers the witches and the swamp, what they’d had to do, using deep old magic unlike any he’s ever seen to make him sane enough again, and... _ what if he’s too far gone this time, too far for even me to get at, and he’ll just have to stay like a rabid animal chained up- _

_ Again. _

He looked away over the estate, to where the sun was dipping low on the horizon, the full moon just starting to peek at the edges. The estate was quiet, lulled by the calm evening. Geralt and practically half the inhabitants had left hours ago, leaving it feeling empty. He takes a breath, trying to feel calm, and wishes he could meditate.

“...I don’t know Regis.” He says quietly.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

“Everyone seems ready.” Geralt murmured, looking over the men. 

They’d eschewed the usual plate they wore for something darker and quieter. The plate was more for everyday wear, its loud clanking and reflections doing an excellent job of intimidation, but far too bold for a surprise attack. Every one of Damien’s men had been instructed to use deadly force, and had traded in their usual nightsticks for spears or swords. He’d expected them to be nervous as city guards usually didn't do full-on assaults on a fortification, but Damien had told him quietly that most of them had served in the last wars in less than  _ official  _ capacity. These were special forces that now served Toussaint in her time of peace and were  _ very  _ motivated to ensure it stayed that way. They knew what they were about, falling into old habits easily as they noiselessly moved in the shadows of the trees acting as eyes for the muscle the nilfgaardians brought. The nilfgaardian troop, too, was also wearing leathers and had smoked their spears and short swords to dull the shine.

He looked over to Yennefer, who’d also dressed for the occasion, a dull black cloak obscuring her completely. She was eyeing the castle, just visible above the trees. 

“As am I. Good luck Geralt,” She turned to him, eyes softening. “Come back in one piece.”

He nodded and followed the men silently to position himself by the back entrance a scout had found. With no one to maintain the place, a hole had opened up, a little gully shielded with brambles. The forest, too, had grown up to the walls as no one had cut it back nor burned it in almost a century. Cover was plentiful, and now that night had fallen they were practically invisible. The archers went first, clambering to the walls so they could position themselves to take potshots at the rest of the place, cutting down guards as they went. He waited anxiously, but all that sound was a low whistle-two notes-signaling their success.

_ Yen? Mind starting the party?  _ He called to her.

_ Of course.  _ She replied, amused.  _ Every good party needs fireworks. _

Above him he could see the night sky turn a sullen red, the clouds looking like they had embers in their bellies. With the wall guards taken down, the alarm went up far too late to be of any good; flame streaked down from the sky, making his medallion jingle. Even with his ears plugged and his eyes shut the light and noise were horrendous, explosions rocking the place. The attack was over in moments, but even after it was smaller explosions continued. With a small smile, Geralt figured that all the bomb components must have caught fire.

“For Toussaint!” Damien yelled.

He and the first wave charged in, cutting down the panicked mercenaries. Most of them didn't even have armor on, stumbling out of the flaming barracks. Some of them were even on  _ fire _ , the canvas long tents they’d been using little protection. Even so, there were a  _ lot  _ of them, and enough of them had weapons in their hands for it to be a problem. They had to wade through them to reach the gatehouse and Damien was finally able to kick the release for the drawbridge, letting the whole thing crash down to open the way for the nilfgaardians. Geralt was never more grateful to see the golden sun once the drawbridge had been lowered; the cavalry quite literally charging in to decimate the defenders under a hail of steel and hooves. 

Now that they had a breather, he quickly assessed the area. From what he could see of the grounds, little was left of it except the outer walls and one crumbling tower, tents and hastily-erected shacks the only actual buildings. Clearly they hadn't been prepared to house their entire operation here; it was a fair way from Beuclair, two or three days' travel at the  _ very _ least, so not the most ideal location compared to Dun Tyne. The castle was a mess, the only thing in good condition was the cobblestone square, meaning the basement level was probably intact. He could bet that the more vital pieces of their operation-like the lab equipment and supplies-were under their feet, the sprawling underlayer the griffin witcher had detailed for him. Squinting up at the tower, he had a feeling-not one that he could explain, but one that had that eerie feeling of certainty to it-that she was up there. For some reason he had a flash of another cursed woman in his mind's eye; Renfri murmuring about towers and the girls locked up in them.

Geralt turned to Damien. “Think Syanna’s in the tower. Should I take it or the basement?”

Damien frowned, considering. “...I’ll take the tower. The most vital and dangerous items would need to be kept in a secure location, and the under level is as secure as you can get. My best guess is that’s where that damned vampire and the lab is, and you’re our best defense against either the bloodsucker or whatever mutants have been created.”

Geralt nodded, and Damien flagged down a few guards and a mage to go with him as a backup. Geralt took point; with his senses and shield, he’d be the first to spot trouble and defend against it, giving the mage time to cast and the guards space to flank. Crew assembled, they descended into the depths, a dank hole with steps leading down into the dark, everything down here pitch black. The mage is forced to conjure a little were-light to hover so the group doesn't stumble over themselves down here. People will be able to see them coming easily, but Geralt would rather have the light, to be honest. He’s not sure how long they’ll be down here and he’s only got two cat potions; even a witcher can’t see in the pitch dark without their help.

They walk along carefully, the guards and mage light on their feet, moving almost as silently as elves. Most of the rooms they pass are just doorless holes stacked high with crates; supplies for potions and bombs no doubt. One, though, does have a door-a sleek, metal one that shines with newness and has a peculiar, almost greenish sheen. He recognizes the metal; it’s the same as the kind he’d seen in the cage they’d found in Tesham Mutna, and he’d put good money into betting this one also serves the same purpose here. He eyes it, not wanting to open it if this is all that’s keeping Orianna contained, but so far this is the only room that looks like there's something behind it. He turns to the mage.

“Careful.” He whispers to her. “Might be a vampire here; they’re fast and deadly. Try to paralyze it or use fire; only things that’ll work.” He turns to the guards. “Try to distract it, but don’t engage it directly; she can slice right through you in a single swipe. Leave me plenty of room to get at her.”

They nod, silent and attentive, and he hopes he won’t be leading them to their deaths.  _ Like Stygga. _

He grits his jaw, and opens the door.

  
  


Damien, too, is opening doors, though he elects to kick them down. Now that he’s in the tower and past the fortified ones, he’s encountering rotten, desiccated ones that do nothing more than be a mild inconvenience and he feels justified in viciously splintering them underfoot. This whole, long, convoluted conspiracy is  _ almost over  _ and he can almost  _ taste _ the despair of that most frustrating heiress. He’ll be so damned glad to have her in shackles at last, thrown it the darkest oubliette to await a sentence befitting the leader of an attempted coup. He hoped to have her hanging from the gallows within the week next to her co-conspirators, her majesty back the week after, and everything back to near-normal the week after  _ that.  _ He never thought he’d be glad to go back to menacing courtiers and drug busts, but he was so  _ very  _ ready for this whole herculean ordeal to be over. He braces himself for the last door of the tower standing between him and restoration of the status quo, and instead of revealing a gaggle of mercenaries guarding the villainess's bedchamber it reveals two familiar faces.

“Knew the squirt would come in handy,” Gaetan said, tightening his grip on the back of Oliver’s shirt.

Damien’s eyes widened at the sight of the blade hovering near the boy’s throat and he swallowed, forcing himself to stay calm and stall. Reinforcements would be here soon; hopefully, one that was a good shot with a crossbow. 

“Can’t imagine why you decided to take a hostage. Not like we were much of a hindrance to your escape last time.” He said, inching into the room.

“ _ You  _ weren't. But that bleached asshole and his friend was _. _ ” Gaetan said, sideling along towards the door, eyeing the guards there meaningfully. “Can never be too careful.”

Damien got the hint and waved for them to stand down. They reluctantly moved away from the door, eyeing the witcher, and he eyed them back, a little smug grin hovering around his face. With the witcher’s focus on his men, Damien started to reach for the little bomb that Geralt had helped him and the men make for themselves. It wasn't much; enough to stun and blind an opponent, but it had been intended to help distract one of the mutants enough for the wolf witcher to make his way over and take them out. Maybe-

All of them jumped when a loud crash and a scream came from the room behind, and the cat witcher took the opportunity. “Catch!”

He hurled the boy towards one of the ‘windows’-well, gaping hole in the wall-and as one of his men rushed for the boy. Gaetan himself bolted for the door, but with his men in the way he didn't have a clear shot. He rushed out, heart in his throat, and breathed a sigh of relief. Janne had caught him, and Oliver was a shaking, terrified ball at the center of the doppler’s chest. Some of his men peeled off after the witcher but he knew it was a lost cause. Gaetan was too fleet of foot-he’d seen  _ that  _ first hand-so he could only hope that the soldiers outside could take him down. Even a mutated witcher like Gaetan could only kill so many of them before someone managed to stick a sword in his gut. Or two.

He sighed and turned to Oliver. “You alright?”

“F-f-f-fine c-captain. B-better now, that you’re here.” Oliver spluttered. “C-can we leave now?”

His eyes softened. “I promise to take you back to my house once we’ve conquered this castle.”

“N-n-no stocks? Because I, uh, have had enough with corporal punishment here.” The boy said, eyes darting everywhere. “S-she kept me close because she d-didn't like that alchemist ‘sniffing about’ b-but that witcher wasn’t much nicer!”

“No stocks,” Damien said gently. “In fact, I know someone that would be happy to load you down with sweet rolls rather than tomatoes.”

Oliver sagged then, all the nervous energy going out of him, and Janne held him close. “Go on captain, I’ve got him.”

Damien nodded to the doppler and as much as it pained him to let the boy out of his sight, they had a villainess to catch. He waved the remaining men to his side and they cautiously approached. This time it took more doing to knock the door down, but once down they quickly stormed in. Inside it was sparsely furnished but had enough creature comforts in velvet and silk that he  _ knew  _ this place was hers. But as for the woman herself…

He frowned, sweeping the room, and his eyes alighted on a window. It once had glass in it, but it had shattered. One of his men inspected it, frowning.

“...Think she decided to take the leap over a hangman’s noose?”

“Hmm, good guess,” Damien said, coming over to it as well. “And it would be very likely to be true, except for one thing.”   
  


“Yes, captain…?”

“It was smashed  _ in.  _ Not out.”

* * *

The first thing he notices is the stink of blood.

Oddly enough, it’s not human blood. He’s smelled it only a few times, but he knows what that is.  _ Vampire. _

Turns out they needn't have worried about Orianna.

She’s tied down on a metal table, nude, split open like a specimen in one of Geralt’s anatomy classes. Or, more aptly, like a pig in a butcher’s shop. There’s even a little bucket at the end of the table to catch the blood as she drains, the table on an incline with a small groove in it to channel the blood. There's only a trickle now, the table caked with tacky blood, and he wonders how long she’s been here being harvested for mutagens. She doesn't even stir as they enter, though whether that's from her wounds and blood loss or from the silver spike punched into her forehead is debatable. He remembers hearing once that you could incapacitate a higher vampire with a silver stake into the brain, but the kind of precision required to hit them  _ just  _ right wasn't worth it when fire or bombs were available. But if you tranquilized them first to give you the leisure to insert it just right and you were some alchemist that doubtless knew what bits of the brain controlled what...well. Probably worked better than an injection for the long-term to keep a higher vampire complacent while you drained them like a deer carcass.

He cautiously approached, looking around to see if there was anyone else in the room, but other than mountains of equipment it seemed empty. He waved the men in and they started searching, going cautiously. He, too, started looking around for any clues. He found journals, letters, diagrams, the missing equipment from Thomas’ lab, and-to his interest-a crossbow with curious bolts next to it that looked like spring-loaded syringes. Picking them up he could see the liquid inside, a colorless fluid that smelled very faintly sickly-sweet, just like the fluid that Jerome had been sitting in when he’d found him.

_ If this is what I think this is… _

He pockets the bolts, ready to use on any mutants they find. If it can work on vampires, odds are it’ll work on them.

Looking over the lab he wonders where the alchemist is. After they’d questioned the men from the estate it’d turned out there indeed was one that was employed by Syanna to work on the mutanagens, and he  _ needed _ to find him. A man with knowledge like that couldn't be let loose on the world; there was no telling what he’d do with it. No telling where he was, unless.. 

Geralt frowned and eyed Orianna. 

A sharp yank and the stake is out. He watches her face carefully, and he can practically  _ see  _ consciousness come back to her, though her expression is still disturbingly blank. Distant.  _ Well, not like I expect her to be exactly sane after being vivisected and left that way for a few days. Even if they can’t feel pain the same that  _ **_has_ ** _ to hurt. _

He flicks an axii over her to get her to respond, then asks. “Where’s the alchemist?”

She doesn't respond-not vocally-but he sees her eyes roll to the iron maiden. The iron maiden that  _ one of the men is opening- _

He’s too slow, to slow to warn-

He bursts out of the thing and the guard falls under a stab of a knife with a yell, and in the next moment he’s hefting a-

“COVER!”

He’s able to dodge behind the table, but the bomb is still loud and bright even with plugged ears and shut eyes. It’s there and gone in seconds, and he pops back up with a snarl, ready to fight. The guards and mage hadn’t been as lucky, their sprawled forms less resistant to the effects of the smoke. Geralt’s got a  _ pounding  _ headache, but he’s more than able to go on the attack. The alchemist makes a startled noise behind his mask, and leaps over a table to get some distance between them. He’s quick to follow and they crash through the lab, trading jabs between witcher sword and alchemist's dagger. The alchemist is at a distinct disadvantage though; the mask he’d worn to protect himself from the bomb limits his sight, and Geralt presses him too hard to give him a chance to take it off. He’s able to corner him and-

And he’s forming a shape with his hands-

_ The fuck- _

Geralt is sent flying to crash back against tables and equipment, and seconds after the alchemist is on him with a snarl, his mask taken off to reveal the dark hair and beard of the cintrian. And a face that-

_ I know that face- _

The dagger is coming down, and he’s got no room to move or dodge, but that’s not what his brain catches on.

“...Hello Callum.” He whispers.

* * *

_ Fuck fuck fuck fuck HOW THE FUCK DID THEY FIND ME. _

She’s not going to admit she’s panicking, but she’s panicking. She  _ knows  _ what she’ll face if she’s captured; her dearest sister might be dead, but she hasn't had a chance to take the ducal throne and without her ass actually  _ on  _ it backed up by her unkillable army of mutants the only thing she’ll face is the gallows, not a crown. She’s up in the goddamn tower because she’d wanted a good place to sleep that actually had walls and an intact roof but the damn place has no  _ escape routes.  _ She’s kicking herself for the oversight now, but it’s not like she expected a literal god's damned army to pop into existence in the middle of the night to attack this place. Even with the windows closed she can hear the yelling, the clangs of sword and shield. 

She hisses under her breath, scrabbling desperately for her weapons and clothes, and that one syringe of silver nitrate. If that vampire Gaetan had described had tagged along she’s so fucking screwed. She can  _ try  _ to use it to put him down, but she doubted it. They’re fast, too fast for one normal human to stick them, but hell, she may as well try. She slips it into a pocket and reaches for her coin purse, a fat and jingly thing; more than enough to restart somewhere else. Well, again. Not like she doesn't have experience with that though; after going underground to hide from Dettlaff she’d had to rebuild and had only  _ just  _ reclaimed all of her old hansa once she was sure the homicidal maniac had settled in Brugge. 

She’s so preoccupied that she doesn't notice the dark shape hurtling towards the window.

She certainly notices it when it crashes through it though. She screams in panic and terror as it hurtles towards her and pins her to the ground, and she can do little except thrash under the weight of the hairy, toothy thing above her, and she’s seeing more than just sharp fangs she’s seeing  _ the fox, the fox by the rabbit hole- _

* * *

He freezes, looking shocked. “...How the  _ fuck  _ do you know that name?!”

It’s all the distraction he needs to form an aard of his own, tossing the other witcher off. Geralt gets up, feeling glass shards grating in his skin, and Callum is quick to recover. He grasps his pendant, grinning savagely at the other man.

“Show you mine if you show me yours.”

Callumn bares his teeth at him, and grasps not a pendant, but a simple necklace, whipping it off. The pleasant, unassuming looks of the cintrian fade to reveal yellow slit eyes and a scarred face, though the hair and beard are intact.  _ Well, I guess he’s entitled to a few vanities  _ Geralt thinks blithely. 

Then the battle is joined. With all the masks off-literal and magical-Callum’s a vicious fighter, signs from both of them throwing glass about and lighting tables on fire. Despite Geralt’s advantages with his armor and swords, Callum is more than able to hold his own, with years of experience on his side and blinding speed. It’s an even match, but even though he’s not sure if he can win he’s sure that it won't matter. Reinforcements will arrive any minute, and it won't matter how good of a witcher Callumn is when trapped like a rat with a brigade of soldiers waiting at the hole for him. The clock is ticking for the griffin witcher, and the longer Geralt keeps him here the slimmer the chances of escape. Callum snarls in irritation,  _ knowing _ that, and finally kicks an entire steel table at him in an impressive display of strength. Not that it does him much good, an object that big is easy to see coming no matter how fast it’s going, and he’s able to tuck into a roll to dodge it. When he pulls himself up, though, what he sees makes his blood run cold.

“I’m done with this song and dance,” Callum says, his dagger to one of the men’s throats. “I’ve work to be doing and no time for interruptions.”

The man stirs weakly, and- _ he’s seeing Cahier, stupid young not-nilfgaardian and- _

_ No, god damn it, this isn't Stygga, its- _

_ But it kind of is, almost; a twisted man and twisted experiments, holed up in a castle with a torture chamber- _

“Drop it.” Callum snarls. 

He drops it, the sword clanging on the stone.

“Now,” Callum says, smug, his fingers dancing on the grip. Ready to slit a throat. “Get on the floor.”

He takes a knee but before he gets down his sees a shiver of movent behind the other witcher and  _ then- _

Blood and claws and-

Callum blinks, stares at the bloody hole in his chest and briefly, curiously, touches the claws protruding from it-

And Orianna follows him down with her face curled in a snarl, but the kind of snarl that’s fear-fueled, her eyes wide and pupils little pinpricks. She flinches away from him, crouches, eyes wild and darting, the wound on her torso an angry red line only _ just _ holding together. She spots him and tenses to spring, but Geralt is already taking aim.

“I wouldn't if I were you.” He drawls, the crossbow at the ready. 

She blanches, and he shoots her a grim smile. “You know what’s in these, don’t you?”

She doesn't reply, just stares at the bolt numbly. For a long, tense moment they face off until she finally flicks her gaze to him.

“...Then shoot, witcher.” She hisses, voice quiet and trembling. “Add another head to your saddle.”

He stares at this monster; this predator that fed on the vulnerable, play-acting at kindness to curate the sweetest of vintages, but-

_ I...could have so easily been her. I  _ **_was_ ** _ her- _

“Not today.” He rasps. “But maybe tomorrow, if I ever hear of you drinking again. If I do, I’ll put you down.  _ Permanently _ .”

She stares at him for a moment-eyes wide and shocked, and she’s  _ definitely  _ gotten the message-before misting away. He sags once she’s gone, feeling the crushing weight of his decision already. Was it the right one? No way to know. Only time would tell.  __ In the more pertinent now, he can at least stagger over to the man that’s starting to stir and- _ he really looks nothing like Cahir, nothing- _ seeing the eyes flutter open. Around him, he can hear the others stir and focuses on them instead of the old, old echos.

* * *

I decided to go with Orianna being a true higher vampire-like Regis and Dettlaff-for plot purposes. 


	25. Desperate Measures

* * *

“-And that’s when they named me king.”

He’s about to go on-Basil is a rapt audience-but a noise at the back distracts him. They both look around, wondering just who the hell is up this late.

“Would you…?” The majordomo looks nervous; not that he can blame the survivor of a fleder attack being jumpy about literal bumps in the night. 

“I’ll check on it.” Not like he’s gonna be able to do much if it  _ is  _ a fleder, but he knows they don’t use doors. Probably just some hired hand coming in for a snack from the kitchen, and speaking of snacks he and Basil could use some more cold cuts and wine anyway. Raiding the pantry is  _ just _ the ticket.

Instead of a hired hand though, it's Regis. “Doc, go to  _ sleep  _ already. What are you even-”

He blinks, and tilts his head to look around the vampire to see who he had in tow. “-Ah. Well, I’d ask just how a country doctor can afford a pinchcock that nice, but I’ll leave you to it. Just...keep it down, will you?”

While she’s not what he’s into he can see the appeal-she’s already dressed in a real fancy gimp suit that leaves nothing to the imagination and she smells like she bathed recently. The vampire couldn't have picked a better outlet for stress relief, honestly.

...Although the way she looks  _ really  _ out of it and smeared with dirt and most of all that she’s  _ tied up with a gag in  _ is...concerning. As is the shifty way the doctor is looking about.

“...Yes. Right. I’ll just...be on my way, shall I?” Regis says, eeling around him and towing her along.

Jerome narrows his eyes at him. “Guest bedroom’s that way.”

Regis ignores him and picks up the pace, which doesn't make him any less suspicious.

“Doc.” He trots along behind. “Doc.  _ Regis-” _

The lady has started to squirm, making muffled noises behind the gag, and he grabs for the vampire. The doctor tries to take a swing at him, but the woman pulls hard and he misses. Jerome growls and manages to grab him and they have a very brief tussle that ends with them all on the ground including the woman, who’s thrashing and kicking the doctor. She manages to get in a lucky hit and he yelps, jerking, giving Jerome the opportunity to get the bastard in a headlock.

“Fuckin’ calm down or I’m taking a chunk outta your other arm you bastard!” He hissed, and  _ that  _ seems to get through the other man. The vampire freezes, panting in his face. “What in the everloving  _ fuck  _ are you trying to do?” 

“I can explain.” Regis wheezed.

“You’d better.” The witcher growls.

“She’s not for  _ me,  _ she’s for our...mutual friend.”

“The last time I took him to the brothel we burned it down by accident. A repeat of that is the  _ last  _ thing he needs.”

“And the thing he  _ needs _ is closure.” He hisses. “Which is exactly what  _ Rhena _ can provide.” 

He looks up to see her leaning up against the back of the house, and it sinks in just  _ who this bitch is- _

“So this is the genocidal cuntflap who decided to weaponize my drool. Yeah, well, pleased to meet you ma’am, I’m the fucking test subject who spent a godsfucked CENTURY in eternal torment so you could prove to your sister that your tits were bigger or some shit I don’t care about.” He snarled at her, then looked down at the vampire.

“Did years of way too much blood rot your brain, you simple fucking drunk?” He hissed, shaking him. “What the fuck was your plan, that the nice mass-murdering nutter would calmly explain everything to him and he’d believe it, and that it would matter for shit if he did?”

“It’s like you said-we’re both dead to him. The only way to get him to listen is to have  _ her  _ say it.”

“For the love of-that wasn't a  _ suggestion!”  _ He spluttered. “I thought only Detty took shit literally like that, but I guess the lot of you must be a bit mental!” 

“Jerome,” Regis rasps, his voice very small. “I have to try.”

He pauses, and sighs. “...Look, mate, if I can’t snap him out of it when I’ve been his friend for upwards of a century, you really think seeing this bitch will bring him back to reality?”

They interrupted by some-very muffled-laughter. They both look to see her shaking with mirth, and the witcher stomps over to her to rip off the gag with a snarl. "The fuck you laughing at, bitchtits?!"

“I found you,” She said, a little unevenly. “I actually found you. After all these-oh, this is just  _ hilarious-” _

Jerome Morue. Couldn't be anyone else. With his slit eyes and his mode of speech that Dettlaff had described and with how he looked just like how a recovering science experiment should look, who else could it be? And it’s so damnably funny that the catalyst for meeting her lover and destroyer is  _ here;  _ standing over her with a look of bafflement on his ugly face.

“...See you’re workin’ on the insanity plea.” 

She ignores him. “Did you know,” She gasped, in between giggles, “That he hired me to find you? He was just so sweetly earnest in finding his brother. Just the  _ picture _ of concern.  _ Such  _ a pity he never found you. Would have saved me so much trouble. And, oh, the lives of my men when he found out what happened to-”

“Yes, the same man that you used for your own ends. And will the lady mind assisting me in cleaning up the mess she’s made of him?” Regis interrupts, and his finger-wagging lecturing tone is what pulls her from her hysteria.

“Don’t speak to me like a child.” She snapped. 

“Would you rather I treat you like the lying murderer you are?”

“Children.” Jerome drawls, and they both glared at him. He ignores their looks to stare intently at her, and she knows she’s got his attention. “Let's have this chat in a quieter spot, shall we?”

Regis drags her off, the witcher following behind. He’s gone quiet and still, watching her intently, and she knows that if she plays this right, she might be able to make her escape. He’s a tool that she can use, and what’s more, she won’t even have to lie to do it.

_ The truth shall set you free. _

They lead her down to the cellar, a dank enclosed space, and at the bottom, she can just see the glimmer of a padlocked metal door. She gives them a grim little smile. “So, is that where you're keeping our dearest Dettlaff? Is it just me, or does this look like a prison cell?”

“A preview of what you’ll be inhabiting, no doubt,” Regis says cuttingly.

“Mmm, yes. You hardly get tossed in one for good behavior.” She retorts airly. “Tell me, how many people did he kill this time?”

Regis doesn't have a smart answer for that, just staring at her expressionlessly before turning on his heel to take the descent, torchlight dancing over the walls. Behind her, the witcher gives her an unkind nudge to get her moving, and she follows the vampire down. She knows she’s got a plan, a means, but-

_ -but she knows what’s down there at the end of it, and she’s trying not to feel the press of the walls, or hear any digging of claws- _

_ -In, one two, three. Out, one, two, three- _

“You nervous?” Asked the witcher behind her. 

“Well,” She says lightly. “It’s always a bit nerve-wracking, meeting an ex.”

“And just why is he,” He murmured “An ex?”

She turns to look at him, and notices he hasn't brought a torch. He lurks in the edge of the fire’s glow, fae eyes little lines of mirrored light, and he looks even less human than the vampire next to her that had dragged her miles away, hissing through fangs that he’d rip her throat out if she didn't behave. 

Regis has also paused, interested in the answer despite himself, and a question of his own. “And just what did he see in you in the first place?”

“Maybe he’ll tell you himself.” She sneers at him and nearly jumps when the witcher steps in. This claustrophobically close, she can see the shape of his face, the lines of bones underneath. They look...odd. Like there’s plates under the skin- Like Gaetan’s face had been in a certain light, and she remembers that they’d both had the same treatment, that  _ Jerome was supposed to have been thrown in a vat of serum a century ago, and what does this mean then, just  _ **_how_ ** _ unkillable will they be, just how would she be able to control something this undying when threats of death won’t work- _

“Answer the question.” He hisses, and she swallows.

“Please,” Regis asks, quieter. She looks at him, and she’s surprised to see an...earnestness to him, and she wonders at the motives of the vampire for asking.

“...I can’t speak for him, but I saw…”  _ A prince out of a fairy tale- _ . “I saw a man that loved as deeply, wildly, and...unconditionally as an animal. His love was simple and uncomplicated; he asked no questions and simply took me as I am. He...accepted me. In spite of what this world made of a girl with the simple misfortune of being born under an eclipse, I started to feel like I had a safe place in it.” 

“...He does do that, doesn't he.” The vampire murmured quietly, half to himself and- _ oh _ . 

“Ah, so that’s the motive for you helping him. I wonder what sin you’re looking for him to give you a sense of absolution for, hm?”

He looks back over his shoulder at her, black eyes like pools of ink and damningly silent. 

“Shall I guess, then?” She said lightly, and she knows she’s treading dangerous waters but she can’t _stop_. “Might it have something to do with all that blood you drank? He mentioned that addiction of yours, though to your credit you at least didn’t raise us in hutches like rabbits. Like your kind has done before. Tell me, were you from the school that prefers us _free-range_ , then? I know it’s good for eggs, at least.”

He’s the one to look away at that, the lines of his shoulders tense. “So it’s as I feared.” He said quietly. “You  _ did  _ have plans for us; not just Dettlaff.”

“Can you blame me?” She hisses, and maybe it’s the underground nature of this, the sides of the tunnel closing in, that loosens her tongue. She’s probably shaking, but she’s not sure. “You’re a threat to our entire damned  _ existence.” _

“...No.” He says quietly.

She flaps her gums, not even sure what to say to him just...just…

So she changes the topic.

She turns to the witcher, still looking like something out of a fairy tale-the dark, nasty ones-and addresses him “As for your question of  _ why  _ he’s an ex...well. Open the door and we’ll find out. I’ve been wanting to tell him off for years when I’ve got a safety net between us, so might as well take the opportunity.”

The door doesn't squeak as it opens or any of the cliche crap; it’s new and fresh, hinges oiled. A metal failsafe, because the inner door is just a few bars with wide gaps. Considering how dangerous the resident inside is, a door that lets him reach out to claw people or throw things through it is a bad idea. She keeps her distance and tries to take solace in the faint gleam of runes etched into the stone, and gathers her courage to face the nightmare inside.

* * *

  
  


He wakes.

Consciousness comes to him slowly, filtering quietly back. He’s not been fully awake for a long, long time, it feels like. It’s difficult to feel awake, down here. There's no light, save for what creeps in under the door sometimes. He can feel the waxy stubs of what must have been candles scattered across the floor, some broken, some even ground into the floor. Did he do that? He must have. He doesn't really remember. He’s having difficulty remembering much of anything, right now.

His fingers hurt. 

Well, everything hurts, a dull ache all over, but his fingers hurt the most. He’s missing nails, and they won't heal. He thinks he might have clawed at the floor-there's bloody gouges in the stone-but the fact that they don’t instantly grow back is worrying, in a detached way. His fingers scab instead, and he keeps them tucked up next to his belly, out of the way. Why won’t they heal? Why does he feel so weak and shaky and-

_ -It’s like when he’d woken in the swamp, that same nausea, and the feel like he’d been strung out on adrenaline for an unnamable length of time- _

-But he hadn't really _woken_ then; just existed in a liminal state where he could feel something hovering at the edge, willing to drag him under, but he was too weak for it to take him. Too burnt out, too hollowed out. Worse, even, then when he’d woken from...from losing…

_ -oh the grief, the loss, the  _ **_guilt-_ **

He tries to remember what had happened after he’d read that journal, but he can’t seem to remember any more of that than he’d ever been. He remembers waking up days later and miles away, naked and covered in mud, having to shakily drag himself across the countryside to the inn after stealing clothes off drying lines, terrified the entire way. He’d never hurt  _ her  _ he knows; his brother had been with him in even the worst attacks and had never been harmed. What he’s worried might have happened is that he’d lost control of his human guise and scared her men-or worse, hurt them in self-defense if they’d attacked him out of fear. His human face slips when he has his blackouts-he knows that much, from what Jerome had told him; the witcher having to drag him out of the city after the attack on his workshop. They had to leave a village once and never return because he’d had a blackout in it, though luckily the incident of a man that traveled with a witcher suddenly sporting claws and fangs in the middle of the town square never spread beyond that one locale, and the other time only Dalia had seen him as what he was.

When he’d finally gotten to the inn, all he’d found there was news of her having picked up their belongings and checked out. The innkeeper, to his credit, at least was able to tell him that she looked fine, just ‘hasty to be gone, as though the devil hisself was at her heels’, which was not at  _ all  _ reassuring. Had she been unable to find him, and run off in a panic to search? He knows he cannot be found via scrying, she’d probably gone to get more of her men to try to track him down. Strange that she’d left the music box behind though…

That feeling of wrongness kicked up into ‘panic’ when he’d made it to her base and the men there never reported seeing her come back. He searched. He questioned. He even went back to the estate and found nothing more than a burned-down building and the coat he’d dropped in the basement, still sticky with insectoid blood.

And after that he’d gone numb and insentiate, searching and searching, because she was all she had left, after-

He doesn't remember much of those days, months, years...looking and looking and finding nothing. George would sometimes have to harangue him into eating by shoving rabbits in his mouth, shrilling angrily at him until he complied. That fleder was doggedly loyal to him through everything, the others having left because he was too focused on his search to care for them properly. He’s pretty sure the only reason he hadn't gone completely numb was George making him eat, and the drive to find her, and then-

And then he’d found Regis.

He’d heard of a Hansa band going to Stygga, with one of the members a woman with dark hair, and it’s a tenuous lead but he’s had less. All he finds are old bones and dust, the signs of a massive battle having taken place years ago. George is the one that finds him, snuffling at a smear on a column. He can smell it too when he comes close, the old musty smell of old dried blood.  _ Vampire  _ blood, and when he touches the smooth glass-

_ FEAR, FEAR, TRAPPED- _

He’d hissed and withdrawn, shaken. He’d heard of this-a vampire being reduced to nothing more than glass under gouts of magical flame, mages and witchers alike boogeymen to frighten fledglings into staying in the safety of the creche until they could maintain a human guise. He’d never seen it in person though; such a thing hadn't happened to their kind in centuries, ever since they decided to keep a low profile.

He’d also heard of what it was like, frozen in a dark space, with no way out. No feeling of touch nor smell nor-

“What happened to you?” He rasped, his first words in weeks, kneeling down.

He’d been accused of an overdeveloped sense of empathy. Feeling pain on the behalf of others that weren't clan nor family just another of those flaws that made him different from the rest, though as he had a link with lesser vampires and could literally  _ feel  _ their pain if he focused probably helped him develop it. He’d been mocked for it when he couldn't bring himself to engage in the games others had played with humans in the pursuit of entertainment or blood, their squeals making him uncomfortable, even before he’d been awakened to the fact that they were more complex than mere animals. 

_ -“Oh, come off it Dettlaff, they probably don’t even feel pain. They’re nothing like us.” Emiel had said, licking blood off his lips. “They die so easily that pain doesn't even get a chance to register before they perish.” _

_ Considering the same had been said of plumards and other lesser vampires, he’s not sure. He can understand killing for food, but this...this makes him feel deeply unsettled, and he tries and tries to pull him away but the books sit dusty, and then Emiel starts to avoid him- _

-And it seems fortuitous that after weeks of bleeding himself he finds Emiel under his care, nothing more than a fleshy lump right now, but he knows that scent, even if it had been centuries and they went by Regis now. The first friend he’d ever had. The first that he’d lost.

Now that he’s got him back it feels like maybe...maybe he can...turn things around. Maybe once he finds Rhena he’ll have a pack again, a family, maybe he can make up for what he’d-what he’d done to his-

_ Maybe he can find atonement in caring for Regis. A life for a life. One lost and another given back to him. Maybe- _

But there’s always a scale to balance, isn't there? He’d gotten Regis back alright, at the loss of Rhena. Of course. He curls around the coat and can feel another blackout coming on, maybe his third or fourth in this dark place. 

_ -The dark hellspace full of rot and corpses and blood, _

_ -hands going where they shouldn't, metal on his neck _

_ -The dark- _

“-Dark in there.” A voice says.

_ -the _

“Come on witcher, we aren’t all blessed with your puss peepers.” 

_ -the dark- _

“Well? Light another torch or something.”

He jerks as light flares around him, stabbing into his eyes. He squeals and screws his eyes shut, his head throbbing madly with the assault.

“Why on earth did you leave him here without a light?” The voice says again,  _ and it’s familiar-  _ “He hates the absolute dark. Do you  _ want  _ to drive him mad? 

“Kettle, pot.”

“Granted, but I thought you two were friends?”

“I left him candles.”

“And?”

“...He destroyed them. And the cot.”

“... _ Fantastic. _ ”

“Again, kettle. Pot.” 

It takes some time, but he carefully opens his eyes, blinking away tears until he can finally focus. There're torches beside the exit that had flared to life, and like a moth he’s drawn to them, making his painful way over. The light hurts his eyes but it's better than nothing, even if it makes it hard to see anything beyond the bars. He thinks he sees two figures, though he can smell a third lurking beyond the range of the torchlight. One he knows is Regis, the other-

_ Sometimes he sees things if he stays awake too long to avoid nightmares, but he’s never- _

“Hello Dettlaff.” Rhena says.

She stares down at him, her appearance so...different from what he remembers. Her hair is cut brutally short, she’s older, her face sharper and gaze cutting, and she’s wearing a far different outfit than the simple leathers she used to but-but her smell. It’s unmistakable. She smells like paper and ink and wine, and that faintly fruity, floral smell that reminds him of elderberry flowers. 

“You...you look so real.” He rasps.

“And you…” She eyes him, and he knows she’s about to say something sharp and witty, but she doesn't. Just pauses, for a long moment.

“And you...you look like you’ve been through hell.” It’s far softer than her usual lines, and it’s jarring. He doesn't know what to say. 

Neither does she, apparently.

The last she’d seen him he was an eyeless, hairless horror with fangs as long as her index finger. Those same fangs had torn through her men, painting the walls, the  _ ceiling _ with their viscera, leaving her to stare with her hand over her mouth in horror as she collapsed to her knees and sobbed. These were  _ her  _ men,  _ her  _ responsibility; and while deaths in the lines of duty did happen, she’d never wished them to die like  _ this- _

_ There hadn't even been anything left to bury, in the end. She’d spilled lamp oil instead and lit the house on fire before running, because what if he  _ **_came back-_ **

-And that’s the image that she’d seen in her mind’s eye both in her waking hours and non for the past few years. A picture of a monster, not a man.

It’s really,  _ really  _ hard to keep that picture in her mind’s eye with this...pitiful creature in front of her. He really  _ does  _ look like he’s been through hell, his skin unhealthily pale even for a vampire, deep bags under his eyes, tremors in his limbs. He can barely stand, forced to cling to the bars to pull himself to his knees. Even if there hadn't been bars between them, she doubts he could have hurt her. 

“Rhena,” He rasps, “I thought...are you hurt? Did any of them-”

“I’m...fine.” She says awkwardly. 

She tries not to flinch as he reaches for her, but she needn't have worried. With his nails torn off like that, she’s quite sure he can’t grow claws. She recognizes the effects of that particular metal, seeing the regeneration-stifling effects of it on Orianna, the vampire they’d captured for harvesting mutagens. Hell, at this point he’s no more dangerous than a human, and that’s what lets her reach back, letting him rest a hand on her upturned palm, as light as a moth alighting on her fingers. 

“I...I didn't know where to look. They...they threatened to kill you...I…” He swallowed. “Forgive me. I failed you.”

She’s not really looking him in the face, just down at his hand, trying to digest this. She’s not really sure what to even  _ say,  _ honestly. In all the plans she’d laid, she’d never prepared for this outcome-the only ones she’d ever envisioned was him either dead for good, or him finding her and tearing her heart out. No in-between. 

_ Where to even start? _

_ Start at the beginning. _

“It’s been years.” She said quietly. “And in all that time I pictured you as a monster.”

He might’ve made a noise, a start of a sentence, and she presses her thumb on one of the ruined nail beds to silence him. He flinches, drawing back, but she grips his hand tight, not letting go.

“You found that journal,” She said, lowly, “In that damned house. And when it told you what happened to your dear brother, you just  _ had _ to have blood, didn't you? Boris’ blood. Jack’s. Anabell’s. Devlin’s.  _ Mine.” _

“N-what? I don’t-”

“-And you would have gotten it if I hadn’t hidden like a rabbit in that hole. I had to listen to you slaughter them and hope you didn't find me.” She’s still not looking at him. “And even after I still had to run and hid in different holes while you chased me down because you just  _ couldn't  _ let me go. No ‘let’s just be friends’, or ‘I don’t deserve you’. It’s either be together forever or wind up with claws in my gut because  _ apparently, _ you're the type to react to pain by going on a rampage. And you just  _ can’t take a hint.”  _

“I would...I would never-never hurt you.” He rasps, his voice is almost petulant. “Or...or your men. They-they were friends, I-”

“Really?” She says pleasantly. “Because you don’t get put in a prison cell for good behavior.”

He blinks, now  _ really  _ looking at the bars he was clinging to. “I…” He turns to glare at Regis, “ _ He  _ put me here! Because I wouldn't cooperate with being drugged into senselessness! He didn't want me  _ getting in the way  _ because it was more important to help his friend the witcher with his  _ damned contract  _ rather than helping his own blood brother find-”

Regis draws away, his face pained, because it’s more of that snarled accusations that had been a precursor to a hand around his throat and red mist in his brain.

“Oh  _ please,”  _ Syanna drawled, digging a nail cruelly into his wounds to cut him off. “Is this what you do then? Bluster and deny and shove blame around? It’s pathetic.”

“Rhena, Rhena,  _ please,”  _ He tries to pull his hand away, but he’s lost all his strength and her grip is like iron. She smiles in a truly chilling way, like she’d done during her ‘games’ in the fairytale kingdom because it felt good to be the one to inflict pain for once. She feels a vicious sense of satisfaction from getting a little of her own back, the least that is owed to him for  _ everything- _

A wrinkled, pockmarked hand shoots out to grip them both, forcing her to stop. Jerome’s still keeping out of the lamplight, but she can see the shine of his cat eyes in the dark and his gaze is focused on her face.

“He doesn't remember,” The witcher rasped. “What happens during his blackouts.”

“He  _ doesn't-”  _ She looks back at Dettlaff, who’s looking hurt and confused and-

“Who…” Dettlaff is trying to get a look at the third wheel on this cavorting wagon of tragedy, eyes watering as he tries to focus. Jerome has withdrawn back into the dark though, silent again.

“You don’t remember killing my men? Almost killing  _ me?”  _ She challenges, and that gets his attention back on her, and he looks lost.

“I...I would never hurt you.” He pleads. “Never. I  _ love _ you.”

She stares at him, incredulous, then rounds on Jerome. He’s not going to stay out of this mess, she won’t let him, and she wants  _ answers. _

“How,” She hissed, “How the fuck is he this ignorant to just how much of a  _ homicidal maniac  _ he is?”

Jerome’s quiet, sunk in on himself. “...Never told him.”

“You-” She spluttered. “Why?!”

He doesn't have an answer to that, but she knows it anyway. “Fucking coward, sugar-coating the truth. But that’s not even the worst of your failures.” She snarls. “You’re a  _ witcher!  _ It’s your  _ job  _ to put down dangerous monsters! Why in the hell didn't you glass him the  _ second  _ you saw this rabid dog tear someone’s face off?!”

“We can only be-” The doctor tried to interject.

“Don’t patronize me, I  _ know  _ one of you can only be put down for good by your own kind.” She snaps at him and turns back to the witcher. “But you could have done  _ something,  _ for fucks sake _.  _ Mages and witchers worked together once to kill Kagmar; your  _ father  _ found notes to base his research on. There’s  _ proof  _ that it can be done. Even without the serum, you could have put him in a cage and dropped it down a sea trench, glass him and mix it with silver shavings, get a mage to bubble him into an eternally blazing fire.  _ Anything  _ would have been better than just letting him roam free around innocent people that he could turn into goulash at a moment’s notice!” 

She glared at him, eyes accusing. “You could have found a way. It’s been done before. So why  _ didn't _ you?!”

“...I couldn't.” He whispered. 

She gave him a deeply disgusted look and rounded on the doctor. “And you thought  _ me  _ childish. I’m not the one refusing to give up a favorite toy out of  _ sentimentality.” _

Regis bared his teeth at her. “And you? As I see it your hands are just as bloody trying to regain the throne that went to your sister. Trying to take away  _ her  _ toy then?”

“Bloody with the ichor of men that beat me, starved me, r-” She has to clench her teeth shut to prevent it all spilling out.  _ No, we don’t talk about that. _

“And as for the throne, It’s not a toy, it’s a  _ tool _ .” She sneered. “It’s power and influence and resources. And  _ you’re _ as stupidly shortsighted as everyone says bats are to think this is all some petty children’s squabble. My sister’s done nothing with her power but stomp grapes and shag minstrel’s on down bedding, when she could have bent it to protect her people from  _ that _ .”

Dettlaff flinched as she pointed at him but nevertheless tried to talk to her. “Rhena? Did you...did you really...use me? Use me to...to kill...”

“Well, I suppose you deserve honesty.” She says, her eyes cold. “I owe you that much.”

She crouched down to be at eye level with him, looking him over, this  _ monster  _ of a man. “Yes. I used you. You’re the perfect assassin, deadly and invisible, so there are  _ practical  _ reasons for wanting that. I will admit that  _ punishing  _ you for what you did play a factor in picking you though.”

“And what of him going on a rampage because of what you pushed him to do in your little schemes?” Regis hissed. “Did you factor  _ that  _ into your plans?”

She turned her black stare on him, cold and calculating. “If it takes a monster to give people the will to hunt the ones in their midst, then it’s  _ necessary.”  _

Regis blanches and cringes from her, but she ignores him to look back at Dettlaff. He’s staring at her like he’s never seen her before like she’s a stranger to him, and maybe she is. Before that day of blood and fear she never would have thought to head down  _ this  _ road. She’d made a new life for herself, far from the pain and abuse of her childhood. She had power and security and yes, even love. But then she’d crashed against a rock in the road, and it had sent her down an altogether  _ different _ path.

“You made me into a monster.” He whispered.

“You already were one.” She shot back.  _ Go in for the kill.  _ “But you already knew that, didn’t you, Dettlaff?”

He’s looking out of it and terrified, and it’s just so  _ satisfying. _

“Tell me again, just what motivated you to tell Jerome to meet you at that inn?” She cooed, “Was it the money his father gave you to do it?”

She can hear Jerome suck in a breath behind her, and Dettlaff starts to shake. “N-no, no, I-”

“Oh, right. You never had much use for petty human things like money. You always did look down on us and our  _ quaint  _ little customs, but what can I expect of a man that views us as lessers? Honestly, I could go on all day about how irritatingly patronizing you could be towards humans. Towards  _ me  _ at times. But, let’s stay on topic.” She said, viciously amused. “If you didn't sell him for coin, what  _ did  _ you sell him for? The journal wasn't specific.”

Dettlaff keened, a horrible undulating sound that wasn't the  _ least  _ bit human, and that’s when Jerome comes eeling out of the dark. She cedes the floor to him, this last actor in this tragic play, and waits for the show to start. Now to give the cue. 

“Well? Go on and tell him. I’m sure he’s  _ dying  _ to know.”

Dettlaff stares up at this...this twisted, mangled man with weeping sores and bandages and stinking of herbs and beneath it all- _ that scent, the scent of home and pack- _

“...Jerome?”  _ Can’t be, he’s-no. But that scent, that- _

Those slit yellow eyes look down at him. “...I thought he faked the letter when he caught me.” His voice was carefully even. “To get my guard down.”

“...No. It wasn't a fake.” Dettlaff swallowed. He’s been carrying this shame for a long, long time, and he can’t stay quiet, even if- “I wrote it.”

“...Why.”

“He…” His throat feels dry and raw, but he has to confess.  _ He deserves that much-  _ “He said...he said he wanted to make amends.”

Jerome crouches down to be at eye level, and that expression is terrifyingly familiar, like when he’d pressed a silver blade to his throat-

“But you’d  _ never  _ agree to meet,” Dettlaff licked his lips, “So...we decided to word it like a contract that I was telling you about. That I’d meet you there. I thought with me being an intermediary...that you…”

He trails off under the emotionless stare for a moment, and in desperation, he adds- “...that you could have a  _ family _ again.”

_ Jerome stares and stares- _

“...So you lied.”

“...Yes.”

He snarls, and his eyes go silver.

Then it’s  _ chaos.  _

Regis lunges for him, because Jerome has reached in and gotten his hands around Dettlaff’s throat and he’s  _ screaming  _ at him,  _ fuck you, how could you, do you know what he did to me- _ as Syanna shuffles away, watching this shitshow go down.  [ _ Job well done _ ](https://i.imgur.com/CAdtu8s.jpg) _ ,  _ She thinks,  _ now to get the key to the cuffs. Should be easy, with the good doctor distracted.  _ She focuses on Regis, who looks panicked and-ah, there it is. The satchel. It’s on a moving target, but she’s picked harder pockets. She’ll just nip the key, unlock her cuffs, and rabbit away while they’re fighting. She eels close, and she’s in the middle of reaching for it when Jerome’s voice changes to screaming about ‘ _ needles, always needles, needles’  _ and it starts breaking and changing, the words getting slurred. She chances a look, and oh-

_ He’s an eyeless horror with peeled-back skin and needle teeth erupting out of it- _

_ And it looks like- _

Fear slams into her, and she shoves herself away, grabbing for anything, anything to protect-

Her hand hits the vial as blood hits her face, The doctor screaming now, and she  _ lunges _ -

He’s hissing under her, immobile, face sliding back into ugly, pockmarked normalcy, but he’s down. She scrambles off, her heart fluttering away in her chest because... _ oh gods, is this what the mutations do? Make them into...give them that… _

She breaths.  _ In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three- _

She opens her eyes.

It’s a mess. There's blood on her and the wall, of that particularly thick, almost black color that vampires have. Across from her Regis is on the floor, groaning weakly. His arm is bloodied and ragged, and the blood isn't stopping. Which...she’s seen Dettlaff heal, that’s not normal-

_ So, it really  _ **_does_ ** _ give them the ability to- _

She forces herself to  _ move  _ while the vial’s still working. Jerome’s not a full vampire, there's no telling how long the silver will last, and he’s already starting to come around. She tears the satchel off the doctor and dumps it, gets the key out, and undoes the manacles. They clatter to the floor, and she stands, tensing to-

“Regis? Regis?” A thin, reedy voice calls, and she looks to see Dettlaff staring at the doctor. “ _ Regis!  _ No, no, no-”

The doctor has started to shake, viens blackening. His head rolls back and so does his eyes, mouth opening in a silent moan.

Dettlaff’s voice morphs into a  _ plea,  _ the man reaching for him, scrabbling against the bars. He can’t reach, he’s too far _. “No, no please, please, I’m sorry, no-” _

For an instant, she pauses, looking at him weeping and begging and-

-Shoves Regis away from her, turns, and runs up the stairs. 


	26. Epilogue: Coming home to roost

* * *

“Auch, he’s back again.”

Luis blinked as he came up and heard that statement from his father. The other man was peering out the slats of the shutters that were still over the windows. It was just barely dawn so they hadn't opened the place up yet; not that stopped some of their customers who wanted first pick of the cuts for their restaurants. They’d start malingering around outside as early as four am sometimes, jockeying for position; but that was on working days. Sunday was reserved for honoring Meletilie, or as most people observed it, a day to slack off. As such the area around the shop was almost deserted-well, except for the figure lurking at the entryway, of course. Luis squinted at him, but didn’t see anything particularly objectionable about the man.

“You take care of him.” His father said, peeling off to go mutter in the back as he worked.

Puzzled, he pulled back the shutters to address the customer. “What’cha need?”

“I would like to inquire about blood and blood vessels.” The other man rattled off.

“...Uh.” Luis said intelligently, blinking at the...odd phrasing of that. 

Now that he’s looking at the man, he’s noticed that he has a bunch of ten-gallon buckets, a shovel, and a wheelbarrow. The man himself is dressed in a plain black jerkin and what was obviously hand-me-downs; standing with his hands clasped tightly in front of himself, shoulders hunched, entire being seeming tensely contained. The eyes darted about and never met his own-well, except for when they _did-_ the gaze intense and intimidating, pale eyes focusing almost violently on his face. 

If it wasn't for the fact the man was clean and had a full purse he’d mistaken him for one of those crazy vagrants that lingered around the docks and sent him on his way. He flicks his eyes to the other man he’s just noticed idling a little while off that he suspects is the weird one’s chaperone, hoping for a normal intermediary. His hopes are dashed when the man looks up from picking at a roll to reveal gold slit eyes and the kind of lazy smile that makes it clear he’s in no mood to be helpful.

Feeling beset on all sides, Louis turned his attentions back to the customer. “...Right. That’ll be ten coppers a pound. You makin’ sausage?”

Blank confused stare. Uncomfortably long silence. 

“...Yes?”

“O...kay. How many pounds do you want?”

More silence. Mental math is clearly happening.

“Fifty pounds of coagulated blood from any mammalian livestock. And twenty-five pounds of medium-sized blood vessels, also from any mammalian livestock.”

“Mamun...mamman...right then.” He gives up and shrugs helplessly. “Five crowns for the blood and three for the gubbins.”

The man takes up his purse and pays - with _exact change_ \- and Louis leads him around to the back, whereupon the sausage-maker (if that’s actually what he’s doing with the offal, which Louis highly doubts but doesn’t really want to find out) shovels everything into the buckets. He’s surprisingly athletic for someone that skinny and unhealthy looking; he had the look of a man just coming back from a long illness. All of this passes without a word spoken between any of them- Not that Louis tries; honestly. He just stands there twiddling his thumbs because he’s in no way interested in making small talk with the man that just got _seventy-five pounds_ of blood. _What the hell does he even need that much blood for?!_

He then loads the buckets in his wagon and trundles off, the witcher trailing behind him. Louis can just hear the murmured conversation between them as they turn a corner. 

“How much have you got left?”

“Thirteen crowns.”

“Good, let's stop and get some street food then. I’m starving.”

They do, indeed, stop for food because witchers as a rule were _always_ hungry. The two of them had an unspoken agreement that the small allowance for necessities also went to bribes for the witcher to overlook the spending on frivolous things.

“Do you need to touch _every tool?”_

He ignored the witcher to squint at the 9mm gouge, weighing it against the relative merits of the angled chisel; debating whether or not he wanted to be able carve delicate details like fur or he should invest in something that would allow him to hack off large quantities of wood to make bigger items. There was a block of cherry waiting to be made into a dolphin, but on the other hand he had a tagua nut squirrel that was roughed out and needed-

-In the end, he bought neither because the stall owner shooed him away after taking too long and asking one too many questions. He preferred to focus on other customers that knew what they wanted and he didn't have to keep watching suspiciously, half convinced that the man who wouldn't make eye contact and practically bent in half leaning over the bench to study every minute detail on the tools wasn't about to slip one or two into his coat.

They paused at the water’s edge to eat and rest, their legs dangling off the brick above the water below. He was still weak, and even with the witcher’s help the wheelbarrow was heavy. Considering he hadn't been able to do much more than walk over to use the chamberpot not so long ago it’s an improvement. Now he’s able to head to the closest market and peruse the wares, though he still didn't have much to offer with the lean ‘allowance’ he was given. It was better than nothing though, especially since he hadn't yet recovered enough nor granted much freedom to go out and earn much of anything of his own yet. Even now he’s not permitted to leave without an escort; and not just because he has a difficult time commingling with the locals. 

He absently stares at the flash of sunlight glinting off the twin swords as the witcher settles in next to him, doing idle calculations as to how long it’ll take to save enough so he can start his rat-catching business again.

This is the perfect opportunity to carve a bit, and he pulls a chunk of boxwood out of his pocket that was no longer than his finger. On impulse started whittling away the shape of a duck, the models swimming about his feet looking for dropped crumbs. The knife he always kept about his person did a decent job of it, even though it wasn't really _meant_ for carving; or...much of anything really, other than looking nice. Tasar hadn’t really known much about knives other than this one looked suitably ostentatious for a Beltane gift. 

He stares at the knife for a moment, thinking.

Then he turns to the witcher to show him the carving and he takes it, turning it over and admiring it. The other man can still recognize the shape of it despite the roughness; ‘nice duck’ he says. All that he says, in fact. He’s still not at ease around him; the witcher treating him with a tense sort of formality. At least he didn't-

“Let’s head back.” 

He nods and they slowly trundle their way to the estate, and even with stopping for rests along the way, they get there just as the grounds are starting to wake up. Good; he tried to avoid the hustle and bustle of the residents if he could, the press of too many people giving him the shakes. 

“Hey Eskel. Done with babysitting detail?” Lambert said, walking over.

- _At least he didn't talk down to me._ He thought ruefully, watching Eskel dismount Scorpion. No, the former just treated him like a particularly dangerous but not aggressive ward; making no effort to socialize but not going out of his way to maltreat him. Lambert on the other hand-

“C’mon bat, back into the cellar. Chop chop!”

He sighed tiredly, trying to ignore him as he carried the buckets down to the cellar steps where they would keep cool until evening and he could feed his pack. This treatment rankled on some level, but he knew better than to take the bait. Doing so only encouraged him, and under the sneers and jabs was real anger waiting to burst out. Lambert was the type to hold grudges against someone who hurt any member of his pack, much like lady Yennefer; though he’d take this snarled distaste over her cool, dispassionate gaze. She was the type to watch and wait to strike, an ambush predator rather than pursuit _and_ had the kind of teeth that would really take a chunk out of him. The kind that could bend the elements themselves to her whim; power enough to make his existence _extremely unpleasant_.

She...scared him.

So when she appeared at the top of the steps he averted his gaze and did his best to be small and inoffensive; trying to express the respect and deference he had toward the alpha of this estate _._ He did his best to stay in her good graces because he’d hurt her mate and she had every right to rain lightning down on him until he was a smear on the cobbles. 

He felt her cool gaze pass over him, and presently she spoke. “You have a package.”

He cautiously follows her to a wagon and she gestures to the single large crate inside it. “I took the liberty of sending some people to the little abode you’d been sharing with Regis to get some things.”

He approached it, eager to be surrounded by his own familiar possessions. To finally wear his own clothes, to have his sketches, his- 

- _lyre._

He swallowed, pulling it out from the clothes it had been packed in. It wasn't his, not really, but he’d put so much work and effort into it’s repair it almost felt like it. He taken it with him through upheaval and strife; one of the few small things that he’d carried with him, along with the knife, the moth brooch, the-

_-Music box, the ring-_

He slowly opened his eyes, not noticing he’d even closed them, and turned. “Thank you, Lady Yennefer.” He said, bowing deeply; touched that she’d-

“You’re welcome.” She said, accepting his gratitude as a matter of course. “To be fair, it was my daughter that came up with the idea.”

He feels a rush of warmth as he envisions the young woman that he’s had some very quiet conversations with under the old conker tree that overlooked the estate. They were, physically, inverse versions of one another; him with his black hair and slouching about in his plain earth-toned clothes; her with her pale hair and regal outfits, as poised as a queen. Or, well, empress as the case may be. But in their conversations there was a deep kind of understanding there that could only be found among themselves.

_“How do you live with it, knowing that you almost…”_

_She’d looked down at the estate, her foster parents enjoying the shade, Eskel and Lambert splashing in the creek nearby to cool down in the heat. “I owe it to them to try.” She turned to him, “And myself.”_

_He’s silent, and she gives him a sympathetic look. “But if you can’t do it for your own sake, it’s okay. You do have people around you to give you something to strive for.”_

_“...I’m not sure of that.”_

_“Talk to them.” She’d said with a small, gentle smile. “You might be surprised.”_

Those words had stuck with him even through her lessons; practical ones. Turns out the means of learning how to control a wild, unpredictable source of magic was applicable to his own issues. Meditation had helped, but he hadn't done so in years; after the fire in his shop he just…

_-letting his mind go blank and wander meant it went to dark, dark pits and holes and he just couldn't-_

-It wasn't safe. Not for him. Not for anyone around him. 

But the knowledge that there was one person close at hand that could destroy him utterly in an instant no matter how bad he got was, strangely enough, very comforting. He couldn't touch her, nor anyone else, not while she was around. The power that he could smell thrumming under her skin wouldn't let him. So he could sit, under the shifting shadows of the tree, and just...be. 

He’s not sure where she got the time or energy to help a mess like himself in between her duties as a ruler, but he’s grateful; due to her efforts and his own hard work he’s slowly fighting his way back into his own skin. 

Well, that, and helping _others_ do the same.

He makes his way over to the house, going slowly because he wants Yennefer to follow him; and she does, letting herself be his chaperone. He would have preferred Ciri but she’s not here and he knows better than to go anywhere alone; he’s not safe and he knows it. He would have liked her advice and encouragement, but he couldn't-shouldn't-have her holding his hand at all times. All the same, he can’t help but hesitate at the threshold and look at his intimidating shepherd for a little guidance.

“Go on.” She said, waving him along impatiently, “Before lunch gets here. They never pay attention to anything when there's food around.”

-And he can’t help a small smile at that, because for one it’s true, and two her brusque manner helps clear the jitters away. He steps in, following his nose to the veranda out the back where it’s quiet and shadowed. He pauses just to observe for a moment. He’s gained weight, gained hair, gained a _lot_ since-

-But his smell is still strange, even after the recovery. Some things have changed that can’t ever be undone; and he’ll always have that new undercurrent of faintly chemical scent, commingled with the smell of leaf litter in winter. His own, he thinks, and of all the ways he could think to have him smell like a true brother that is the worse possible-

He takes in a breath and pulls himself from those thoughts, coming close to sit on the end of the bench. 

“...Hello, Jerome,” He says carefully.

“...Hello, batty-fang.” His brother rasps back.

_Nickname. Good sign._ He had his good and bad days, but that was a signal that he was doing okay. Something of a...shorthand; talking about without talking about it because neither of them was good with discussing their feelings. 

They just sit for a moment, silent. It’s not a tense silence.

“I have something for you.”

Jerome blinks at that and actually looks at him now, cocking his head curiously. He has to take a breath because he’s not sure how this will hit him, and takes a moment to prepare before pulling the towel off it. Jerome stares at it for a moment, face unreadable, before extending his arms out carefully; and he hands over the instrument cautiously. The witcher cradles it to his chest like it’s made of spun glass, and slowly expressions flit across the scarred face; his brother had always been animated and expressive, well, for a witcher. Only around him though; something he wondered at. _Is it because he feels comfortable enough around me to do that, or is it for my benefit, so I can actually read him without trying to guess?_

_Both maybe?_

But ever since...the lab he’d become less so, curled in on himself, except for when it caught up to him again over a dropped spoon and sent him raging at anything and everything. Mostly himself, and he’d learned so much that he knows Jerome would have rather not had him find out. Like _why_ they’d drifted apart after the fire-

_-“Who the fuck burns people alive; who_ **_does that_ ** _, what sick twisted bastard does that and drags you with them”-_

He’d had to sit next to him after that one, promising over and over again that he wasn't going to be _anything_ like him. He’d gotten worried looks after the witcher had passed out, head pressed against his thigh. He’d been bluntly asked by Geralt if _he_ was alright; and while he wasn't at his ease around the man who had sent him plummeting down a hillside he was obligated to answer because he knows he’s dangerous and Geralt has people to protect. So he’d said honestly, ‘no’, and that he didn't _understand._ The wolf witcher who’d raised a daughter had, very haltingly, explained how difficult it was sometimes, feeling you had to be a role model for someone, and maybe, just maybe, his brother felt like he’d failed at it. Which...explained a lot. He wished he hadn't learned it like this; but he’s not really surprised by that, nor that he’d only learned of it _now_ when he was incapable of keeping things like that to himself. 

They didn't talk. Not really. They’d sort of just ignored the bad things and moved on like they always had in the past. For a while, tending to his brother while he healed had been okay. Dettlaff had always coped with his...issues by focusing on physical things he could fix as a distraction; like he’d done in the past with abandoned plumard pups and bruxas with broken arms and more recently, a higher vampire melted into slag. He’d always liked fixing things even before he’d learned how to do that for wooden toys. Physically, at least. Emotionally...well.

_Talk to them._

“...He...gave me that.” 

The witcher blinked at him.

“Your...father.” He licked his lips nervously. “A gift. To convince me of his sincerity. He said that he wanted you back. I...I didn't know that he intended to get you back by taking you apart.”

He pauses. “...I’m sorry.” 

It’s not adequate in the _least,_ those two small words, but it’s all that he has. Not that it amounts to much, and all Jerome does is flick his gaze down to the instrument, damningly silent.

“Talk to me?” He coaxed. “...Please.”

He doesn't respond for a long moment, and when he does the words sound like they’re being dragged out of him. “...Wasn’t you that held the scalpel.”

“Or the straps.” He continues, quiet and hoarse. “Or the…”

A pause. “...It was him. Only him.”

Jerome leans forward then and they meet halfway, foreheads pressed together. 

After, they help each other to the shade of a tree to eat lunch and lie in the cool grass, not as close as they’d been before but still _together,_ and it’s enough for him to doze lightly. He’s locked in at night so he’s been forced to become diurnal and his body is having a hard time coping. Beyond he can hear the sounds of peacocks calling, the buzz of cicadas. Otherwise, silence. Everyone is sleeping away from the blistering dry heat of a Toussaint summer, the sullen air carrying only a faint breeze touched by the smell of a storm trundling slowly towards them.

When he wakes it’s slow, pulled from sleep by the estate stirring back to life. People are chopping wood, hoeing the garden, cooking the evening meal or-in his brother’s case-humming a tune to themselves, fingers lightly plucking at the strings. 

“-All the way to Dublin, whack follol...” He rasped.

Then he turns to look at him, and his eyes are clearer than they have been in a long, long time. “Going to go in and help Marlene with cooking. Get us some herbs?”

He nods and they go their separate ways, looking up to see that he’s under the watchful gaze of Geralt and Damien, who are enjoying a cup of wine together and quietly talking. He doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but he can’t not with ears like his. 

“How’s the Duchess?”

“Full physical recovery, though her voice will never be the same.” A pause. “She’s...changed though. I used to have to nag her about security issues but…”

“But…?”

“She is not the same bombastic duchess anymore,” Damien says, looking pained. “I would trade the nagging any day for her never given reasons to fear for her safety.”

“She still worried about Syanna being out there?”

“It’s more than that.” He explained. “She’s never had to worry about assassins before. She’s a well-loved ruler by the people; the nobles here wouldn't dare dispose of her for fear of riots. And _now_ -”

“Yeah, a brush with death changes things.” Geralt sighed softly, then gave him a questioning look. “Speaking of nobles, what’s the official events that she gave them?”

“Not that different from what you very first suggested actually, though expanded upon a little,” Damien explained. “Some religious fanatic going after agents of moral decay; though we replaced the ‘vampire’ with ‘leftover witch hunter from Radovid’s reign using foul magics’ and added in a little ‘barbaric northerner envious of our decent standard of living’ for flavor. The mercenaries, too, were his little cabal of like-minded zealots that were slaughtered en masse.”

“And Anna’s disappearance for a few weeks…?”

“A visit to nilfgaard to even things over with our most benevolent overlords. The air there did not agree with her, however, and gave her a cough and sore throat.” 

“They bought it?”

“It seems so. I’ve not received reports of their spies digging for more.” Damien took a sip of his wine. “To solidify it, she’ll be handing out a medal to you and Yennefer for your work in finding the perpetrator. A small ceremony; along with my men that assisted in the assault. The...ones that survived, that is.”

His voice goes quieter then, and Dettlaff can just barely hear Damien murmuring about the _‘losses of that night’,_ both of them looking grim, and he knows what night they’re talking about. The castle they’d stormned; Rh- _Syanna’s_ mercenaries clashing with nilfgaardian soldiers and Damien’s men.

_-and at the estate, the more personal losses; the stripping away of illusions and seeing just how ugly he is under the sugarcoating,_

_-And Regis gasping, choking, under the efforts of trying to dispel them, turned desperate for-_

He’s stopped walking and there’s silence, the two men staring at him. He can see the afternoon sun glint on the hilt of Geralt’s silver sword that he wore at all times now, and he breathes. _One, two, three in. One, two, three, out._

He looks again and they’ve resumed chatting. Dettlaff resumes walking to the garden.

He has no use for plants, their applications a mystery to him. He draws them now, though; grown fond of the lacy spike of wormwood and the mounded clumps of sage via association. Their scent puts him in mind of bottles lined on the sides of a simple stone cottage, neatly blended perfume oils ready for daily application. He passes a hand over them now and lets the scent soothe him as he wanders. He’s in no hurry; he wants to prolong the time outside before he’s stuck inside peeling potatoes. Not that he _doesn't_ like helping Marlene-she’s warm and attentive to him, and she _still_ reminds him of his aunt-it’s just fresh air is in such short supply with him. He’s lived most of his life in nothing more than caverns with the mouth open to the stars, running barefoot over field and fen hunting with his pack. Living here is like having his wings tied to his body, even as he knows there’s safety in the confinement. Eventually, he might have that again, if he can prove to himself that freedom won’t come with a bloody cost.

_Someday, someday._

He sings a familiar tune under his breath as he goes. He’s always had a pleasant singing voice even though he rarely uses it, disliking drawing attention to himself. He only sings around Jerome when they’re on the road or by himself. “ _Are you going to Scarborough Fair?-”_

He plucks a few herbs, moving through the garden. _“Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme-”_

Light footsteps, a strong herbal smell. “ _Remember me to one who lives there-”_

“-She once was a true love of mine.”

He cocks his head. “I have never heard you sing.”

Regis smiles down at him. “Take that as a blessing, as my voice is as harsh as the ravens that I’m so fond of.”

He’s too polite to agree and too honest to lie, so he tucks a spire of sage flowers in the other man’s buttonhole instead. Regis hums his approval and they work together quietly to gather more herbs, both of them lending hands to uprooting escaped tendrils of mint. The garden is well-tended so there’s not much to weed; Regis spends most of his time here maintaining it when he’s not tending to patients. Word has gotten around that there's a doctor on the estate that has no compunctions about treating the peasantry, nor any issue with accepting cabbage and eggs instead of coin, so he’s been pleasantly busy when he’s well enough to see patients. The other vampire has only just gotten enough strength back after the second attack on his _other_ arm. He now has a matching set of scars, much to Jerome’s shame. They had an unspoken agreement about not bringing it up after Regis had respectfully declined his offer of blood to assist with his recovery. It might’ve worked due to his...altered biology, but the doctor wasn't comfortable accepting it and forming a bond with the one that tried to tear his arm off _twice._ He’d offer his but Regis won’t hear of it since he’s still recovering himself and Dettlaff has been leery of trying Jerome’s blood himself as well. He’s...not willing to risk being drunk.

Eventually they’ve gathered what they need and they walk to the archway, Regis plucking one of the blooms off the clambering rose, offering it to him. He twists the blossom between his thumb and forefinger, inhaling its sweet scent. He misses the blue roses of nazair-too hot and dry here for them-but these are still lovely, especially when made into soaps and jams, or in this case, a pretty ornament to dress up his plain black jerkin.

(His beautiful frock coat is still in a box shoved into the farthest corner of his cell, sitting like a buried corpse too fresh to be exhumed. He’s not sure if he will ever have the strength to face it.)

Speaking of facing, Damien is here, waiting at the archway. Next to him Regis stiffens, and through the bond he feels a wave of anxiety before the doctor manages to quash it. He puts a hand on the other man’s shoulder anyway, because while he knows Regis doesn't want to upset him with his own fears he still offers comfort. He’ll need it.

“Are you ready doctor?” Damien asks him.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” He says. The joke falls flat.

Dettlaff leans in, speaking in their native tongue. _“You could still run.”_

Regis just gives him a small, shaky smile, and says nothing in reply. Not that words are needed; he knows the self-sacrificing doctor well enough to guess. He will not run, not when he feels that he must bear the brunt of whatever punishment he’s earned. Sometimes he wonders where Regis ever got the impression he’s a coward when he’s willing to face his own mistakes so readily. He supposes that strength came from the same well that he’d drawn the will to look at the ruin that his own addiction had wrought. 

He is strong. Very strong. But that doesn't mean he has to face this alone.

“Do you want me to come with you?” He asks gently.

Regis wavers, looking like he needs to say _no_ but wants to say _yes_ and Damien interrupts.

“You are permitted to bring one character witness.” The captain intones. 

His face is expressionless and the tone is perfectly even, so he’s not sure if the man is saying it out of simple obligation or if he has any goodwill left for the doctor. It certainly is not out of goodwill for Dettlaff, and the younger vampire tries not to feel that familiar shame at the way the clawmark scars bunch and pull on the other man’s face.

“...Yes.” Regis rasps very quietly.

He gives the doctor’s shoulder a squeeze and then lets him go so they can walk to the stables where the horses and mule are waiting, already saddled. He’d walk-he’s not fond of riding and has little experience in the saddle-but he’s not strong enough yet to make it all the way there. Neither of them are. Regardless Geralt follows behind, kitted out in his armor to guard him even if he’s not inclined to escape nor really _able_ to. He can at least take some comfort in the witcher’s presence; he is as loyal to Regis as his school’s totem is to its pack, and will doubtless _try_ to grant the older vampire some clemency even if he doesn't feel very deserving of mercy. Left to his own devices the doctor might argue _for_ the chopping block and he can only hope he and Geralt will be the voices arguing for compassion. He looks back at the witcher and tries to wordlessly express his worry, hoping to somehow convey his request for support. He’s never been good at making the proper facial expressions, so he can only hope that the other man gets it.

Geralt focuses on him for a moment, and then-there. A subtle nod. He nods in return and turns back to Regis, pressing lightly against the other man and putting an arm around his waist under the pretext of staying on the mule. He hopes the closeness will help comfort the doctor, and does his best to send feelings of safety and calm through the bond as they ride to beauclair.

Behind him, Geralt is trying not to let on just how apprehensive about this he is. 

Anna relented in her judgment for Dandelion, banishing rather than executing him, but that was just for being the lying whore that he is. Letting her _attempted muderer_ escape was on another level entirely. Granted, most of the punishments he could think of-hanging, beheading, etc-wouldn't be very effective on a higher vampire, but depending on the severity it may take Regis a long time to recover, especially with how weakened he was right now. And _painful,_ no doubt. Shrugging off an arrow was fine if the wound only lasted a minute or two-but regrowing from just a head would doubtless take time; time where he’d have to stew in his pain. Geralt winced. 

She might be convinced to just exile Regis, but he’s not sure if the doctor will go for that. Regis doubtless will want to stay close to Dettlaff, even if that means suffering extreme pain to do so. Problem is that Dettlaff will be, well...distraught is probably one way to put it. The younger vampire blames himself a lot for what happened and will blame himself for whatever happens to Regis. He doesn't want a repeat of him curled in a ball, weeping and repeating _‘didn't stay gold’_ in a corner like when he’d woken from passing out from blood loss after practically draining himself dry to save Regis from the venom. 

(Jerome has been very studiously avoiding him after a bout of hysterical apologizing; which is a good thing because Geralt’s not sure he’d be able to stop himself from beating his face in. Between Jerome, Regis and Dettlaff all having issues, he’s seriously starting to wonder how the _hell_ Vesemir dealt with the lot of them after the trials without going crazy himself.)

So, with Regis likely refusing the second option they’re really only left with the first. Geralt sighs and resigns himself to dragging the doctor’s body back, and hopes his head will be easy enough to re-attach to the rest of him. 

However, as they file in he’s distracted from his grim thoughts by- “ _Dandelion?”_

The bard smiles at him from where he’s been waiting at the throne room doors. “Geralt! Good to see you. Ciri sent me a letter with updates.” He approached the doctor with an even bigger smile. “Gods, I’m even more glad to see _you._ I just wish it was under better circumstances.”

Regis accepts the hug from Dandelion happily, and Geralt can practically see the doctor’s mood lift a little. Dandelion tends to have that effect on any situation no matter how grim; but as happy as he is to see him Geralt’s...a little concerned. 

“Dandelion, the last time you were here the Duchess-”

“-Wanted to see me hanged, yes. Granted, she still _does_ hate me, but I’ve grovelled and made up to her as best I can. Enough that I’ve no fear of the hangman’s noose.” He turned a worried eye on Regis. “Unlike you, my friend.”

“Is that why you're here?” Regis asked.

“Indeed. I’ve spoken to my Dear Anna, and we’ve discussed your sentence; the details of which she’ll announce to you personally. Safe to say, it doesn't involve _complete_ absolution, but it’s a sight better than what she previously planned.”

What she had planned went unsaid, but the moment they’re in Geralt spots the mage and _that's_ when he’s struck with the chance that he might not _have_ a body to drag back.

Fringilla is standing next to Anna, and she briefly meets his eyes with a cool, detached air. It had been years, but he well remembers her fling with him, and the resentment she was sure to have. There was going to be no clemency there, and ample power to reduce Regis to a pile of ash.

There's a heavy, cold stone in his belly now, and though his logic said _‘it’s okay, it’s okay, Dandelion said-and even if-he recovered from that with help-’_ his brain is running away with thoughts of how _weak_ Regis was right now, and _maybe this time it won't work_ -

He clenches his jaw, clamping down on the sound of remembered screams and the roar of flames. Panicking won’t help. 

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy.” Intones a man next to the duchess, the only stranger in the room. “You stand accused of aiding in the escape of an attempted murderer. How do you plead?”

“Guilty,” Regis says very quietly. 

If Anna’s surprised by the easy admission she doesn't show it, and the courtier continues.

“Very well. For your despicable crime against Toussaint and especially our esteemed Duchess, Anna Henrietta, you-”

He abruptly stops at her raising a hand, and the room briefly settles into silence as she lowers it. She takes a moment to quietly observe the doctor.

“...Why.” She rasps. Just that, nothing more. Regis has to wonder if the reason she didn't deign to elaborate is because her voice sounds nothing like it used to. He winces internally, trying not to think about it. He knows what she’s asking anyway.

“...It was never my intention that she escape, your highness. As little as that matters, it truly was not. My only intention was to find a means of curing my friend Dettlaff. I worried that if I did not, he would remain a danger to himself or others.” It...pains him to share such private affairs to a courtroom, but he owes her an answer. To spare Dettlaff from further shame he quickly moves on. “Besides trying to spare him and others harm, I...owe my life to him, your majesty. He nursed me back from something that is as close to death as we come; I felt the need to repay that kindness, in whatever way possible.” 

She considers that her face unnervingly even, and motioned to Dettlaff. Her assistant called him to step forward and he came to stand next to Regis, shoulders brushing.

“Detail, if you would, the nature of your illness sir.” The man drawled. “And how it could have been ‘cured’ by the appearance of Syanna?”

The younger vampire looked deeply uncomfortable at the question. When he speaks it’s stilted and very monotone, the voice of a man struggling to speak.

“...I don't clearly remember what happened after, but when I was told that R- _Syanna_ was pretending to be kidnapped so she could use me as an assassin. I…” A pause “I...didn't believe him. I thought that he was lying, that she was dead, killed by her kidnappers because of his...interference.”

He can’t meet her eyes. “I...blacked out. I attacked Regis. I tried to kill Geralt. I sicced other vampires on innocent bystanders. I tried to make him-”

He stalls, throat closing, and it takes him a moment to continue. “He...brought Syanna to show that what I was told was the truth. To have her explain all. It was the only way. Otherwise, I would stay in my madness, might lash out and hurt more than I already had.”

It clearly takes effort, but he forces himself to look at her. “He had no choice. I forced him to. I am...sorry.” 

He’s pretty sure Dettlaff isn't just addressing the duchess with that one, and Anna’s expression briefly flickers at that. She holds up a hand to motion that he can stop and he subsides, looking glad to be done but still anxious about what might happen now. Geralt can sympathize.

She stands and approaches them, addressing Regis first. 

“Our voice will never be the same. The damage wrought by the poison gives us something more suited to a fishwife than a duchess. I shall never again be able to _sing_ -” She pauses, and gets herself under control. 

“However, we are alive. Alive, because of you.” She says, her voice hard. “We well understand the feeling of a life debt Regis. It’s one of the reasons we’re not claiming yours in retribution.”

Next to her, Dettlaff stiffens because- _it’s the same expression, the same that-that Rhena used when she’s -_

-then she relents, that ghost of her sister gone from her face, and he can breathe again. “-But we also understand compassion. We feel empathy for your plight, the bond with Dettlaff. Therefore, we’ve altered the sentence to reflect that. Fringilla?”

She withdraws, and Fringilla approaches. At the edges the witcher tenses and Dandelion has to put a calming hand on his arm, murmuring _‘trust me, trust me Geralt-’_ until he subsides, fists clenched tightly.

She eyes both of the vampires for a moment, then moves her hands, murmuring an incantation in elder speech. Dettlaff and Regis can’t see nor feel the magic - vampires aren't sensitive to it - but Geralt can. It shimmers like heat waves and buzzes across his tongue, winding around the two again and again, sinking down slowly to the floor. It hovers around their ankles, slowly solidifying into two twin cuffs, plain iron engraved with runes. He recognizes some; runes for binding and control, similar to the ones he sees on golems. 

“These cuffs will allow me to track and monitor you two. They _also_ link you two each other as well; so whatever is inflicted on one, affects the other. I _expect_ ,” Then her eyes narrow. “That you boys will be on your _best_ behaviour. Won’t you.”

It’s not a question. Their eyes widen, sharing a glance, knowing that if one of the steps out of line, the other will _also_ -

Regis swallows, and answers for both of them. “Yes, we will.”

“Wonderful.” She says airly and withdraws.

“Your sentence is rendered, and you will serve it for as long as is fitting,” Anna says, turning away in dismissal. “You may go.”

They leave, and everyone saves Dandelion exits the room. The bard lingers at the door and Geralt turns to give him a questioning look. “You coming?”

Dandelion hesitates. “...In a moment.”

Geralt watches him walk back in, and as he does he sees the Dutchess at the window, staring down a paper scrap, the edge stained with wine.

Outside, Geralt catches up to Damien, their steps falling into sync. They’re both quiet for a moment until he turns to the other man with a questioning gaze. “...So, officially, she’s sparing him because of...compassion?”

“Officially.” The captain grunts.

“...And unofficially?”

Damien is silent for a long minute. “...I can only speculate. But…” He sighs. “Should Syanna had been captured, the only fate awaiting the attempted murder of her grace is a noose. An execution she would have had to pass down, and _personally_ witness.”

“...She _still_ doesn't want to sentence her, even after she tried to-”

“She would have gone through with the execution; some things are unforgivable regardless.” He sighs. “She would have had no choice.”

“...But Regis took that choice away.”

“Yes, Witcher.” He said quietly. “He did.”

Behind them, the door closes and Dandelion trots over to Anna. She doesn't look up from the little paper scrap, though she can sense Dandelion as he comes to stand next to her. He’s silent for once, letting her think.

“...She was exiled in this same room.” She rasps quietly. “It was just after one of our many pranks. It caused a diplomatic incident, a minor one. Regardless, my parents took it as an opportunity to be rid of her. To be rid of the black sheep born under an unfortunate sun.”

She paused. “...I could have spoken out. Admitted I was involved; begged them not to kick her out. Said something like they’d have to get rid of _both_ of us.” 

She swallowed. Hard. 

“I didn't.”

“I hid behind my mother’s skirts and didn't look at her or say a word.” The little slip of paper blurred. “I did nothing to prevent her from getting kicked out, and abused by her escort. I did-”

She can’t really see it, but she can feel the bard’s hand close over hers. 

“Anna.” He says softly. “It’s not your fault.”

She takes a deep breath, trying to absorb the sentiment in it. But it’s hard not to feel that in some way she’s responsible for her sister changing from the impish trickster she’d known as a child to the ruthless monster she’d turned into because-

_“A lovely sob story. But it does not change the facts of the situation. Whatever reasons he may have had, Regis allowed her to escape.” She’d hissed scathingly at the troubadour. He’s the last person she’d wanted to see right now, the lying cheating- “Do you know she tried to_ **_kill_ ** _me?”_

_“I...had heard-”_

_“With her free, I’ll never be free of the fear...or the damage done. My voice is ruined; for good. You know how much I loved to sing with-” Her mouth twisted, and she pulled up one of the blackmail notes, the one that Damien had told her with the instructions regarding_ **_her_ ** _. “-Now I have to watch for poison in my cups, or god forbid, some_ **_other_ ** _rabid vampire sicked on me to tear my heart out!”_

_Dandelion took it from her, reading it softly. “‘This time you must see to our Duquesa-’”_

_She’d blinked at the next part, shocked into silence._

_“-Anna Henrietta knows nothing of empathy. Her heart is cold. This shard of ice you must tear from her breast.’”_

“You were a _child_.” Dandelion pleaded, interrupting her thoughts. “Even if you had said something, your parents would have exiled her anyway.” 

“True. But that is not why she hates me so.” _She remembered Syanna looking at her when she was told the sentence, eyes wide with shock, and then-_ “I looked away. I showed no pity, no sympathy, no... _compassion_ , for her. Only mute acceptance.”

Dandelion sighed, lightly touching her hair, offering comfort without words because for once, there are none. Even for poets.

“Leave me,” She said tiredly. “I’ve had enough regrets for today.”

The door closes silently behind him, leaving her with the old memory of remorse as the day draws to a close.

* * *

  
  


_I have a feeling that my friend Dettlaff-_

He paused, chewing the nib.

“What are you writing?”

“I like to record my last thoughts of the day before falling asleep,” Regis murmured, tapping the quill against his chin. 

He’s so deep in thought it takes him a moment to recognize the anxious silence. The vampire looks up to see the other man sitting on his cot, forehead creased and his gaze on the floor.

“...Are they…full of regret?” He paused, “About-”

He motions towards their manacles, the binding of threatened pain should one of them step out of line, and his heart clenches realizing his friend has taken all the blame upon himself.

“I regret my actions that led to this, but it will not begrudge the outcomes of it, good or bad. Nor will I blame them on _you._ ” He set the book down for the moment. “Dettlaff? _”_

The vampire cautiously meets his eyes. 

“I do not regret knowing you.” He said softly, cutting to the root cause of his friend’s anxiety. 

_They have been more open than they ever have, Dettlaff very cautiously telling him of things he’d never dared to before, filling in holes and suddenly making sense of so many things. He worried about those around him regretting knowing him because-well. Because between the rages and the blackouts, there were painfully honest reasons too-_

_It had taken him everything he’d had to then tell Dettlaff that he’d experienced the same over his addiction, the losses of friends and family, and now the_ **_guilt_ ** _over how-_

_They were monsters, both of them. In uniquely terrible ways._

“...Nor I you.” Dettlaff managed to rasp.

He gives him a small smile, and the other man settles in his cot to sleep, but he stays up to finish his writing. Sometimes he feels the need to get things out on paper, and while the short sentences he writes are never as eloquent as his mode of speech they are far more succinct, encapsulating perfectly what he feels at any one point.

_I have a feeling that my friend Dettlaff will one day recover. I am glad._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnd...done! What a ride. Thanks for all the comments and kudos.


End file.
